What does “public forum” mean here? Why is the White House press area a nonpublic forum? And why has this concept become so consequential in the three organizations’ lawsuit? This article takes a closer look at the doctrine under the First Amendment.

1939: Hague and the Language of Public Trust

The public forum doctrine did not emerge fully formed. Its origins are usually traced to a dispute over public assemblies in New Jersey in 1939.

In the 1930s, Jersey City had an ordinance requiring anyone wishing to hold a parade or assembly in a street or park to obtain a permit from the director of public safety. The director could refuse permission if, in his judgment, the event might lead to riots, disturbances, or disorderly assembly.

At the time, the Committee for Industrial Organization (CIO) was organizing locally, distributing leaflets and holding meetings. In 1937, Jersey City Mayor Frank Hague used municipal ordinances to prevent the CIO from meeting in public places and distributing its materials. Police broke up meetings, arrested and expelled organizers, and harassed people associated with the organization. The CIO and other plaintiffs sued the city officials.

The case reached the Supreme Court, which decided it in June 1939. The Court upheld the plaintiffs’ claims concerning assembly and expression and found the relevant ordinances unconstitutional. The case was Hague v. Committee for Industrial Organization. The Justices disagreed over the reasoning, however, and did not produce a single majority opinion. Paraphrasing Justice Roberts’s opinion:

Regardless of who holds title to streets and parks, they have always been held “in trust” for public use and have long served as places for assembly, the exchange of ideas, and discussion of public questions. Such uses have been part of citizens’ privileges, immunities, rights, and liberties since ancient times. Government may regulate them in the public interest, but it cannot use regulation as a pretext to curtail or deny them.

Roberts did not use the words “public forum.” But later decisions repeatedly returned to this passage. Over time, it became a starting point for the doctrine.

How the Concept Took Shape

Over the next four decades, waves of social movements brought the courts numerous disputes about public assembly. In the decades following the rise of the antiwar and civil rights movements, courts considered whether political advertisements could appear on public buses, whether controversial plays could be staged in municipal theaters, and whether political leaflets could be distributed on military bases. These disputes raised a common question: how far could government regulate the use of public places?

From the 1970s onward, courts began explicitly using the term public forum. The concept concerns both the character and use of a place and the government’s authority over it. Streets and parks managed by government have long served as places for public assembly and expression. Government cannot simply invoke its position as property owner to exclude expression at will. It may regulate use, but must respect the freedoms protected by the First Amendment.

The doctrine distinguishes the government’s ownership of property from the public’s right to use it for expression. It asks how much protection the First Amendment provides when government manages that property. A privately owned place does not automatically become a public forum under the First Amendment merely because the public is allowed to enter.

1983: Perry and the Three Categories

In the 1970s, two competing teachers’ unions operated in Perry Township, Indiana: the Perry Education Association (PEA) and the Perry Local Educators’ Association (PLEA). The local schools had an interschool mail system, used primarily for official school communications but also for teachers’ personal messages. Before 1977, both unions had equal access to it. After PEA won a representation election in 1977, it negotiated an agreement with the school district granting it access as the teachers’ exclusive bargaining representative and excluding other school employee organizations, including PLEA. The restriction concerned access by competing unions; teachers could still use the system individually.

PLEA argued that this distinction violated freedom of speech under the First Amendment and equal protection under the Fourteenth Amendment, and sued the relevant school district officials. The case eventually reached the Supreme Court, with PEA as the appellant. In 1983, the Court ruled against PLEA by 5–4 in Perry Education Association v. Perry Local Educators’ Association.

The Court held that the school mail system was a nonpublic forum and that the exclusive-access agreement was constitutional. Justice White set out a framework dividing government property into three categories, with different standards of review:

1. Traditional public forums: Streets, parks, and sidewalks long used for public expression. Content-based restrictions must satisfy strict scrutiny: they must be necessary to serve a compelling governmental interest and narrowly drawn to achieve it. Viewpoint discrimination is prohibited.
2. Designated public forums: Property that government voluntarily opens to public expression despite having no obligation to do so. While it remains open on that basis, it receives the same protection as a traditional public forum.
3. Nonpublic forums: Property that government reserves for particular purposes or particular users. It may impose reasonable, viewpoint-neutral restrictions and regulate use in light of the forum’s purposes.

In Perry, the Court considered the interschool mail system’s role in transmitting official school communications and its practice of selective access. It concluded that the system had not been opened to the public generally and was therefore a nonpublic forum. Giving PEA preferential access was reasonable because it was consistent with that function. As the exclusive bargaining representative, PEA had statutory duties to represent all teachers in dealings with the district, and the mail system helped it perform those duties. PLEA had no comparable official responsibilities, so the district was not required to give it equivalent access. The majority viewed the distinction as one based on the unions’ status, rather than their viewpoints, and therefore lawful.

Perry brought the doctrine into a more settled framework. It also left an important question: how should courts assess restrictions in nonpublic forums? What if government uses its management authority to suppress unwelcome views?

The Limits of Regulation in a Nonpublic Forum

Three later decisions helped define those limits.

The first was Cornelius v. NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund in 1985. In 1957, President Eisenhower established a fundraising campaign known as the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC), allowing federal employees to donate to charities of their choice. In 1982, President Reagan issued an executive order limiting participation to organizations providing direct health and welfare services and expressly excluding organizations engaged in political activity, advocacy, lobbying, or litigation. Under the new rules, the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund and other organizations were barred from participating. The Legal Defense Fund sued. The lower courts initially ruled for the plaintiffs, but the Supreme Court reversed and remanded for further proceedings.

The majority held that the CFC was a nonpublic forum intended to raise money for health and welfare services, rather than to open a venue for public discussion. Access could be limited by subject matter or speaker identity, provided that the distinctions were reasonable in light of the forum’s purposes and viewpoint neutral. The Court did not decide whether the government’s explanation concealed an effort to suppress particular viewpoints; it left that issue for the lower courts on remand.

The second was Arkansas Educational Television Commission v. Forbes in 1998. The Arkansas Educational Television Commission (AETC), a state-owned public broadcaster, organized a televised debate for the state’s Third Congressional District election in 1992. It invited the principal Democratic and Republican candidates but excluded independent candidate Ralph Forbes, citing his limited campaign organization and public support. Forbes sued.

The Supreme Court held that the debate was a nonpublic forum because access was selective and invitations were issued individually; the broadcaster had not opened participation generally to all qualified candidates. It could make reasonable, viewpoint-neutral editorial judgments based on newsworthiness, time constraints, and programming considerations. The accepted reason for excluding Forbes was his lack of appreciable public support, independently of his political views. The decision did not give government blanket permission to exclude candidates simply because they were independents.

The third was Minnesota Voters Alliance v. Mansky in 2018. A longstanding Minnesota election law prohibited people from wearing political badges, buttons, or insignia inside polling places. In 2010, the Minnesota Voters Alliance and other plaintiffs challenged the restriction.

The Supreme Court treated the polling place as a nonpublic forum devoted to voting rather than free-ranging political debate, permitting some content-based restrictions. Minnesota’s law, however, did not clearly define what counted as “political” and lacked objective, workable enforcement standards (for example, the First Amendment could appear on a shirt, but the Second Amendment could not). The restriction therefore failed the reasonableness requirement.

Together, these decisions define the limits of government regulation in nonpublic forums. Restrictions on expression and access must be reasonable in light of the forum’s purposes and viewpoint neutral. A restriction that fails either requirement cannot survive this First Amendment analysis. Passing forum analysis does not establish compliance with other legal requirements, such as due process.

Returning to the White House Press Area

Why is the White House press area a nonpublic forum, and what restrictions can government impose there?

On the first question, the Perry framework directs attention to its function and access policies. The area primarily facilitates news gathering and is selectively available to qualified journalists. Considering those policies and its actual uses, the area has not been opened to public expression generally and is therefore a nonpublic forum.

On the second, White House credentialing policies, as a means of regulating access to that forum, are subject to the requirements of reasonableness and viewpoint neutrality. A central issue in the three news organizations’ 2026 lawsuit is therefore whether their exclusion served the press area’s particular functions and whether it discriminated against their viewpoints.

Across nearly ninety years, the public forum doctrine has developed a measure for the government’s authority within the spaces it controls. It recognizes that government may set conditions for particular uses, while requiring it to refrain from viewpoint discrimination. The White House press area’s status as a nonpublic forum permits regulation. It does not place the area beyond constitutional limits or allow officials to exclude reporters simply because they dislike their organization’s coverage.

This article accompanies episode 22 of Reasoned Talk, “Three News Organizations Sue the White House: Press Freedom and the Legal Limits of Press Credentials” . The episode examines the White House credentialing system and the decisions in Sherrill, Karem, Ateba, and the Associated Press litigation. This follow-up explores the public forum doctrine behind those cases and how courts draw limits on the government’s authority to control access to property it manages.

Principal References

• [1] Hague v. Committee for Industrial Organization, 307 U.S. 496 (1939), full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [2] Perry Education Association v. Perry Local Educators’ Association, 460 U.S. 37 (1983), full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [3] Cornelius v. NAACP Legal Defense & Educational Fund, 473 U.S. 788 (1985), full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [4] Arkansas Educational Television Commission v. Forbes, 523 U.S. 666 (1998), full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [5] Minnesota Voters Alliance v. Mansky, 585 U.S. 342 (2018), No. 16-1435, full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [6] Rosenberger v. Rector & Visitors of the University of Virginia, 515 U.S. 819 (1995), full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [7] Christian Legal Society Chapter of the University of California v. Martinez, 561 U.S. 661 (2010), full opinion at Cornell LII .
• [8] Congressional Research Service, Constitution Annotated, “Viewpoint Neutrality in Forum Analysis,” Cornell LII .
• [9] First Amendment Encyclopedia, “Public Forum Doctrine,” article .

This is the transcript of episode 22 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On the morning of September 19, 2026, CNN reporter Betsy Klein arrived at the White House for work as usual. A senior correspondent, she had covered the White House for eight years. Her press pass still had almost a year to run: it would not expire until August 31, 2027. At the gate, however, Secret Service personnel told her that it had been deactivated. They took the credential from her and directed her to the White House Press Office for an explanation. Reporters from MS NOW and Politico encountered much the same thing around the same time.

It had begun the previous afternoon, September 18, when Trump posted on Truth Social announcing that CNN, MS NOW, and Politico were banned from the White House because they “constantly” reported “fake news.” Seventy-eight journalists across the three organizations held permanent White House press credentials. All were barred at once. They would lose access to the entire White House complex, including the briefing room, press workspaces, and North Lawn, as well as reporting assignments accompanying the president on his travels.

On September 21, the three organizations and three reporters who had been denied entry sued in federal court in the District of Columbia. The defendants included Trump himself, the White House communications director, the chief of staff, and the director of the Secret Service. The plaintiffs argued that the exclusion constituted viewpoint discrimination and retaliation prohibited by the First Amendment, and violated the Fifth Amendment’s guarantee of due process. They sought a declaration that the White House had acted unlawfully and an injunction.

On September 24, the court issued a temporary restraining order urgently restoring their White House press credentials. On the evening of October 13, it granted the plaintiffs’ motion for a preliminary injunction, finding a strong likelihood of success on their three constitutional claims and requiring their access to be maintained while the case continued. The Justice Department appealed the preliminary injunction on October 14.

The case remains pending. The injunction is interim relief, and there has been no final judgment. This episode examines the history of litigation over White House press credentials.

White House Press Credentials and the Press Pool

Originally, the White House had no dedicated press workspace. Reporters gathered news outside its doors. Beginning around 1895, William Price of the Washington Evening Star waited at the entrance every day, asking people coming and going for information. In 1902, the White House expanded its West Wing offices and provided a dedicated press room. Reporters now had a permanent indoor workspace: the beginning of today’s White House press area.

A dedicated workspace brought a need to manage access, and White House press passes followed. These come in temporary and permanent forms. Permanent credentials, known as “hard passes,” are issued to journalists based in Washington who hold congressional or Supreme Court press accreditation, generally following a Secret Service background check. They allow holders to use a faster security process and work in the press area without continuous escort. These were the credentials deactivated for the three organizations.

Whether temporary or permanent, a press credential principally establishes eligibility to enter the White House grounds and press area. Attendance at particular events or entry into particular spaces requires separate arrangements. A credential alone does not entitle every holder to enter the Oval Office or Air Force One. That is where the press pool comes in. A small group of journalists rotates among news organizations, enters those spaces or travels with the president, and shares its video, photographs, and written reports with other outlets. Television coverage has primary and secondary positions. The primary position rotates among Fox, CNN, NBC, ABC, and CBS. As one of those five, CNN supplies 20 percent of the staffing and costs. Its footage is distributed to more than a thousand local television stations. Deactivating CNN’s hard passes therefore also prevented its reporters from doing their pool assignments.

Since the White House issues these credentials, can it simply decide who receives one and who does not?

Sherrill: Standards and Procedures for Denying a Press Pass

In 1966, Robert Sherrill, The Nation’s Washington correspondent, was denied a White House press pass. The Secret Service initially refused to explain why. Only in 1972, through a freedom-of-information process, did he learn that the refusal rested on security concerns arising from his record of assault. At the time, there were no publicly stated standards for White House credentials, and rejected applicants had no opportunity for a hearing or rebuttal. Sherrill and another applicant sued.

In December 1977, the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit ruled. The court reasoned that the White House had no obligation to open its doors to everyone. Once it voluntarily established press facilities, however, journalists’ access was protected by the First Amendment’s guarantee of a free press. Depriving a journalist of that access therefore required the due process guaranteed by the Fifth Amendment. The absence of specific security standards and procedural safeguards violated the First and Fifth Amendments, and the plaintiffs prevailed.

The court did not order the White House to issue Sherrill a pass immediately. It required his application to be reconsidered under constitutionally adequate standards and procedures, including notice of the reasons, an opportunity to respond, and a written decision. This preserved room for government security assessments. The government could screen applicants for security risks, but it needed specific standards; a vague invocation of “security” would not suffice.

After the decision, the Secret Service adopted standards and procedures for security clearance in connection with White House press-pass applications in 1978. They were incorporated into the Code of Federal Regulations and remain in effect. Under these rules, the security-clearance inquiry turns on whether an applicant presents a serious threat to the physical safety of the president or the president’s family. Political views, the slant of reporting, and criticism of the president cannot serve as security criteria. Formal procedures provide initial notice, a written response, an opportunity to appear in person, and representation by counsel. These regulations principally address security screening when a journalist applies, however; they do not specifically set standards and procedures for subsequent revocation or suspension.

Decades later, the same reasoning would be applied to those situations.

Acosta and Karem: From Denial to Revocation and Suspension

In November 2018, CNN reporter Jim Acosta clashed with Trump at a White House press conference. The White House then suspended his hard pass. CNN and Acosta sued. On November 16, the judge ordered it restored because the White House had provided neither advance notice nor an opportunity to respond, violating the Fifth Amendment. The plaintiffs dismissed their suit on November 19, so the case never reached a final judgment.

A similar dispute arose the following year. On July 11, 2019, Trump held a social media summit at the White House. After his remarks, Playboy reporter Brian Karem got into an argument with a former Trump adviser. On August 16, the White House suspended Karem’s credential for thirty days, citing a breach of “professional journalistic norms.” Karem sued in federal district court on August 20. On September 3, the court issued a preliminary injunction restoring his credential.

On June 5, 2020, the court of appeals affirmed the injunction. Karem had not been told in advance that an argument in the Rose Garden could result in suspension of his press credential, and the sanction caused him serious harm. The government could not announce a standard after an incident and then apply it to earlier conduct. The court did not deny the White House’s authority to maintain order. It could establish rules of conduct for reporters and sanction violations. The essential point was that the rules had to exist beforehand and be clearly communicated.

Does that mean the same rules apply to every reporting activity inside the White House? Two cases from 2025 distinguished between different spaces and activities.

Ateba: Neutral, Reasonable Eligibility Requirements

Simon Ateba, the White House correspondent for Today News Africa, obtained his hard pass in February 2021. On May 5, 2023, the White House announced a policy change: all hard passes would expire at the end of July, and reporters would have to reapply. The new policy tightened eligibility by requiring prior accreditation from one of the Senate, House of Representatives, or Supreme Court press galleries. About five hundred reporters lost their hard passes following the change, including Ateba. He had not obtained Senate press-gallery accreditation, did not meet the new prerequisite, and was denied a hard pass.

On August 10, 2023, Ateba sued in federal district court. Unlike the earlier cases, this one ended in a decision favoring the White House. On April 8, 2025, the court of appeals held that the White House press area was a “nonpublic forum.” It was not open to everyone, and entrants could be required to meet eligibility criteria. Those conditions were permissible so long as they were neutral and reasonable. The hard-pass prerequisites were neither viewpoint discriminatory nor otherwise unreasonable, and were therefore lawful.

The court also distinguished Sherrill and Karem. Those cases concerned the denial or suspension of credentials that left the journalists unable to enter the White House. Ateba, by contrast, could still apply for a day pass, although daily applications and the lack of expedited entry made it less convenient. He had also brought no due-process claim. The issue before the court was principally one under the First Amendment.

The Associated Press: Access to Highly Restricted Spaces

The other case arose in 2025 and involved the Associated Press. On January 20, Trump signed an executive order directing that the Gulf of Mexico be renamed the “Gulf of America.” The AP decided to retain the internationally established geographic name in its reporting. The administration was deeply displeased. On February 11, the White House began barring AP reporters from the Oval Office and Air Force One.

One distinction matters here: the White House did not deactivate the AP’s press credentials. It excluded AP journalists from particular spaces. But the AP was also part of the White House press pool, supplying photographs and written reports. Being unable to enter the Oval Office or Air Force One meant it could not perform those pool duties, a substantial restriction.

The AP sued on February 21, seeking immediate restoration of access. On April 8, the district court ruled in its favor. The White House could limit the number of reporters admitted to the Oval Office, but could not exclude an organization because of its viewpoint. Doing so constituted viewpoint discrimination and retaliation prohibited by the First Amendment. The court issued a preliminary injunction against that differential treatment.

The White House appealed, and the case took a different turn. On June 6, a divided court of appeals voted 2–1 to stay part of the district court’s preliminary injunction. The majority treated the Oval Office and Air Force One as highly restricted presidential workspaces, rather than public forums under the First Amendment. The president could choose which reporters to invite to these special events, much as he could choose which outlet to grant an exclusive interview. Neutrality could not simply be required in these settings. The appeals court did not, however, stay the injunction as it applied to the East Room, which was open to a larger group of reporters.

The dissent drew a distinction between choosing an interviewer and excluding a news organization from an established pool because of its reporting. The government had no duty to provide every outlet with special access, but it could not withdraw such opportunities to punish an organization for exercising its freedom of speech.

This was not a final decision on the merits. The case leaves a question: the government may choose which organizations receive access to special spaces, but when its choice rests on their views, is it managing access or retaliating against speech?

Returning to the Three Organizations’ Constitutional Claims

The cases discussed so far can be summarized as follows:

• Sherrill required clear standards and procedures for issuing press credentials.
• Karem extended those protections from issuance to revocation and suspension.
• Ateba continued Sherrill’s approach while permitting neutral, reasonable eligibility conditions.
• The AP case has not reached a final judgment. The interim ruling distinguishes ordinary White House areas from special spaces and allows selection for the latter on terms that need not be viewpoint neutral.

With that background, the issues in the 2026 case become clearer.

As noted at the beginning, the three news organizations advance three principal claims. The first is retaliation prohibited by the First Amendment. That amendment protects press freedom and bars government retaliation against media organizations for their speech. Asked about the ban, Trump said it was not about one particular story but about the cumulative effect of reporting over the previous two years. The plaintiffs point to that statement as evidence of retaliation for speech.

Their second claim is viewpoint discrimination, also prohibited by the First Amendment. Relying on Ateba, they argue that the government must select journalists under neutral criteria, rather than treating them differently because of their views. In their account, this ban was plainly based on the organizations’ positions and reporting perspectives.

Their third claim invokes Fifth Amendment due process. Relying on Sherrill and Karem, they argue that hard passes receive procedural protection. The Fifth Amendment requires due process before the government deprives a person of protected interests. Here, the White House deactivated the credentials without clear preexisting standards, notice, or an opportunity to respond.

The defendants, for their part, maintain that Sherrill and Karem were wrongly decided. They preserve the right to seek their reversal on appeal, while acknowledging that the district court must follow those appellate precedents. They also argue that White House access is a privilege rather than a right: the public has no constitutional right to enter the White House, and journalists have no greater entitlement than ordinary members of the public. In addition, the government offered further justifications for excluding the organizations, including alleged threats to national security and disclosure of classified information, and submitted material in support.

There has been no final judgment. At the preliminary-relief stage, however, the court has assessed the plaintiffs’ likelihood of success. On September 24, it issued a temporary restraining order requiring their access to be restored urgently for fourteen days.

Citing Sherrill, the court held that a qualified journalist’s interest in obtaining White House credentials was undoubtedly a liberty interest protected by Fifth Amendment due process. It then relied on Karem for the proposition that a duly issued hard pass could not be suspended without due process. The government did not dispute that the affected reporters had received neither notice nor an opportunity to respond before losing their passes. The record also contained no preexisting revocation standards. Nor had the government supplied sufficient support for its national-security and classified-information justifications.

The court concluded that even a temporary loss of constitutional freedoms constituted irreparable harm. It ordered the defendants other than Trump himself, together with those implementing their decisions, to return and restore the three organizations’ hard passes immediately. It also refused the government’s request to stay the order.

The Preliminary Injunction and Continuing Disputes

Implementation of the temporary restraining order did not proceed smoothly. That morning, reporters from the three organizations arrived for work and were again stopped at the gate. Four had their passes confiscated. The plaintiffs notified the court that the White House was not complying, and the court required a response. The White House began returning credentials around noon, roughly eleven hours after the order had been issued.

Restoration of hard passes did not resolve the disputes over particular reporting assignments. On September 23, CNN applied for credentials to cover the state dinner during the Chinese leader’s visit the following day. An hour before the leader arrived, the White House told CNN it could send only one camera operator and one audio technician, leaving it without an editorial team on site. On the evening of September 25, CNN learned that it could not travel on Air Force One in its pool role to cover the president’s trip. With no replacement designated, that trip had no primary television pool outlet.

The parties continued to contest the motion for a preliminary injunction. On the evening of October 13, the court granted it. The reasoning went beyond due process: the court found that the ban likely violated the First Amendment through viewpoint discrimination, and rejected the Justice Department’s subsequently offered national-security rationale.

That brings us through the latest developments and the earlier precedents. In my view, Trump is likely to lose this case. The ban on the three organizations appears to have been improvised, leaving the government poorly prepared and on the defensive in court. On the surface, this is another episode in the endless exchange of accusations between the American right and left. Judicial intervention has at least made that exchange more exacting. Before speaking, the parties still have to consider the judge—and how much evidence and legal authority they actually possess.

If there is a significant development, I will return to the case in another episode. If it simply fades away, there will be no sequel.

ShowNotes

Key Timeline

• Around 1895: William Price of the Washington Evening Star begins waiting outside the White House daily to gather news from people entering and leaving.
• 1902: Expansion of the West Wing includes a dedicated press room, giving White House reporters a permanent indoor workspace.
• 1966: The Nation correspondent Robert Sherrill is denied a White House press pass without a specific explanation.
• 1972: Through a freedom-of-information process, Sherrill learns that security concerns lay behind the refusal.
• December 1977: The D.C. Circuit decides Sherrill v. Knight, requiring public standards and due process for denying credentials.
• June 22, 1978: The Secret Service publishes security-clearance standards and procedures for White House press-pass applications, incorporated into the Code of Federal Regulations (43 FR 26718).
• November 2018: CNN reporter Jim Acosta loses his hard pass after clashing with Trump at a press conference. A judge orders it restored on November 16; the plaintiffs dismiss the suit on November 19.
• July 11, 2019: Playboy reporter Brian Karem gets into an argument after the White House social media summit. The White House suspends his hard pass for thirty days on August 16. He sues on August 20; a preliminary injunction restores his credential on September 3.
• June 5, 2020: The court of appeals affirms the Karem injunction because he lacked fair notice of the sanction.
• February 2021: Simon Ateba obtains a White House hard pass.
• May 5, 2023: The White House announces new hard-pass requirements, requiring reapplication by the end of July and prior press-gallery accreditation. Approximately five hundred reporters lose their hard passes.
• August 10, 2023: Ateba sues over the eligibility requirements.
• January 20, 2025: Trump signs an executive order directing that the Gulf of Mexico be renamed the “Gulf of America”; the AP retains the original name in its reporting.
• February 11, 2025: The White House bars AP reporters from the Oval Office and Air Force One without deactivating their press credentials.
• February 21, 2025: The AP sues.
• April 8, 2025: The D.C. Circuit rules for the White House in Ateba, identifying the press area as a nonpublic forum. The district court issues a preliminary injunction in the AP case the same day.
• June 6, 2025: A divided D.C. Circuit panel partially stays the AP injunction by a 2–1 vote. The stay covers highly restricted spaces such as the Oval Office, but leaves the East Room portion in place.
• September 18, 2026: Trump announces on Truth Social that CNN, MS NOW, and Politico are banned from the White House. The hard passes held by seventy-eight reporters are deactivated that evening.
• September 19, 2026: Reporters from the three organizations are denied entry and have credentials confiscated. Klein’s pass is valid through August 31, 2027.
• September 21, 2026: The organizations and three reporters file suit in the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, No. 1:26-cv-03287-TJK.
• September 22, 2026: The government opposes a temporary restraining order. The White House Press Office separately writes to each organization, setting a September 25 deadline for a written response.
• September 23, 2026: CNN requests credentials for the following day’s state dinner during the Chinese leader’s visit. An hour before the leader arrives, the White House permits only a camera operator and an audio technician to attend.
• September 24, 2026: Judge Kelly issues a temporary restraining order restoring credentials. Implementation is obstructed that morning, and four reporters’ passes are confiscated. Credentials begin to be returned around noon, roughly eleven hours after the order.
• September 25, 2026: CNN learns that it cannot travel on Air Force One in its pool role; the trip has no primary television pool outlet. The organizations’ counsel writes to Justice Department counsel, reserving further rights.
• September 28, October 2, and October 5, 2026: The plaintiffs seek a preliminary injunction, the government opposes, and the plaintiffs reply.
• October 8, 2026: The court holds a hearing and extends the temporary restraining order through October 13.
• October 10, 2026: A Justice Department spokesperson confirms that the Antitrust Division is investigating whether five television networks’ suspension of television pool coverage violated antitrust law.
• Evening of October 13, 2026: Judge Kelly grants the preliminary injunction, finding likely violations of due process and the First Amendment through viewpoint discrimination, and rejecting the subsequently offered national-security rationale. The injunction remains in effect pending final judgment unless overturned on appeal.
• October 14, 2026: The Justice Department appeals the preliminary injunction to the D.C. Circuit.

Key People

• Betsy Klein: Senior CNN White House correspondent who has covered the beat for eight years. Her hard pass, valid through August 31, 2027, was confiscated on September 19, 2026.
• Akayla Gardner: MS NOW White House correspondent and an individual plaintiff.
• Cheyenne Haslett: Politico White House correspondent and an individual plaintiff.
• Jim Acosta: CNN reporter whose hard pass was revoked after a confrontation with Trump in 2018; a court restored it on procedural grounds.
• Timothy J. Kelly: U.S. district judge for the District of Columbia who heard both Acosta’s 2018 case and the present 2026 case.
• Robert Sherrill: The Nation’s Washington correspondent, denied a White House credential in 1966 and the plaintiff in the 1977 decision.
• Brian Karem: Playboy reporter whose credential was suspended for thirty days in 2019; he obtained preliminary relief upheld in 2020.
• Simon Ateba: Today News Africa White House correspondent who challenged hard-pass eligibility requirements in 2023 and lost on appeal in 2025.
• Stephanie Grisham: White House press secretary in 2019, responsible for the decision to suspend Karem’s credential for thirty days.

Key Concepts

• Hard pass: A permanent credential for Washington-based journalists with congressional or Supreme Court press-gallery accreditation, subject to Secret Service screening. It enables expedited entry and unescorted work in the press area.
• Day pass: A credential for a particular visit or short period, with separate application and escort arrangements.
• Press pool: A small rotating group of reporters covering presidential activities in spaces with limited capacity and sharing text, video, and photographs with other organizations.
• Nonpublic forum: Government property opened to particular users. Ateba classified the White House press area this way. Its management must be reasonable and viewpoint neutral, without unbridled discretion over access.
• Retaliation: Adverse government action taken because of a media organization’s speech, prohibited by the First Amendment. The plaintiffs argue that a ban based on the cumulative effect of two years’ reporting constitutes retaliation.
• Viewpoint discrimination: Differential treatment based on an organization’s views, prohibited by the First Amendment. The preliminary injunction found that the ban likely constituted such discrimination.
• Fair notice: Rules underlying a sanction must exist beforehand and be communicated clearly. Standards announced afterward cannot be used to punish earlier conduct. Karem applied this requirement.
• The two-step due-process inquiry: First determine whether the claimed interest receives constitutional protection; then assess whether the procedures used to deprive the person of it were sufficient.
• Irreparable harm: Even a brief loss of constitutional freedoms can constitute irreparable harm for purposes of preliminary relief.
• Temporary restraining order, preliminary injunction, and final relief: Remedies at different stages of litigation. A TRO is short-lived and based on the record then available. A preliminary injunction involves fuller review and can be appealed. Final relief follows adjudication of the case.
• “A privilege, not a right”: The defendants argue that White House access is a privilege, and reporters have no greater constitutional entitlement to enter than the general public. The court did not accept this argument as a basis for denying interim relief.

Key Cases

• Sherrill v. Knight, 569 F.2d 124 (D.C. Cir. 1977): Denial of a White House press credential requires publicly stated standards, reasons, an opportunity to respond, and a written decision. The court preserves discretion over security judgments.
• Cable News Network, Inc. v. Trump (D.D.C. 2018, the Acosta case): After the White House revoked Acosta’s hard pass, the court restored it on November 16 for lack of notice and an opportunity to respond under the Fifth Amendment. The plaintiffs dismissed their suit on November 19; there was no final judgment.
• Karem v. Trump, 960 F.3d 656 (D.C. Cir. 2020): A duly issued hard pass cannot be suspended without due process. Before a sanction, a reporter must have notice of the conduct that may lead to punishment and the potential severity of the sanction.
• Ateba v. Leavitt, 133 F.4th 114 (D.C. Cir. 2025): Upholds hard-pass eligibility requirements, identifies the press area as a nonpublic forum, and rejects unbridled discretion over admission. The case did not include a due-process claim.
• Associated Press v. Budowich, No. 25-5109 (D.C. Cir., June 6, 2025 order): A 2–1 panel partially stays a district-court preliminary injunction for highly restricted spaces such as the Oval Office, leaving the East Room portion in place. This is an interim ruling pending appeal, rather than a final judgment.
• Cable News Network, Inc. v. Trump, No. 1:26-cv-03287-TJK (D.D.C. 2026, the principal case): The TRO rested on Fifth Amendment due process. The October 13 preliminary injunction additionally found likely First Amendment violations through viewpoint discrimination and rejected the government’s subsequently offered national-security justification. The Justice Department appealed on October 14.

Statutes and Legal Documents

• First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1791: Protects freedom of speech and of the press; supports the retaliation and viewpoint-discrimination claims here.
• Fifth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, ratified in 1791: Its federal due-process guarantee provides the procedural basis for the credential claims. Because the defendants are federal officials, the relevant amendment is the Fifth, rather than the Fourteenth.
• 31 CFR §§ 409.1–409.2, published June 22, 1978, at 43 FR 26718: Secret Service standards and procedures for security clearance in connection with White House press-pass applications, including written notice, thirty days to respond in writing, an opportunity to appear personally, and a written decision. These rules govern security clearance, rather than every aspect of press-credential policy.
• Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 65: Governs temporary restraining orders and preliminary injunctions, including conditions for issuance, security, and the persons bound by an order.

Related Episodes

• Further reading: The First Amendment’s Public Forum Doctrine: Why Is the White House Press Area a Nonpublic Forum?

• 12 Is Burning the Flag a Crime? The Constitutional Battle over the First Amendment : Another examination of First Amendment boundaries through litigation; the present episode concerns reporting access as well as speech.

• 14 Can Being a Vagrant Be a Crime? A Constitutional Moment for American Vagrancy Laws : Uses individual cases to examine constitutional constraints on enforcement and administrative discretion.

• 6 U.S. Birthright Citizenship: Complete Victory or a Temporary Truce? : Constitutional litigation during the same administration, offering a comparison for interim relief and subsequent proceedings.

Main Sources and Verification Notes

• Court filings: Cable News Network, Inc. v. Trump, No. 1:26-cv-03287-TJK (D.D.C.): complaint (ECF 1, September 21, 2026); government opposition to the TRO and three White House Press Office letters dated September 22 (ECF 16 and 16-1 through 16-3); Judge Kelly’s TRO (ECF 24, September 24); plaintiffs’ preliminary-injunction memorandum (ECF 32-1, September 28); government opposition (ECF 43, October 2); plaintiffs’ reply (ECF 44, October 5); Boutrous’s September 25 letter to Velchik (ECF 32-11); Judge Kelly’s October 13 preliminary-injunction ruling granting the three organizations’ request; and the Justice Department’s October 14 notice of appeal.
• Cases: Sherrill v. Knight, 569 F.2d 124 (D.C. Cir. 1977); Cable News Network, Inc. v. Trump (D.D.C. 2018, Acosta litigation, without final judgment); Karem v. Trump, 960 F.3d 656 (D.C. Cir. 2020); Ateba v. Leavitt, 133 F.4th 114 (D.C. Cir. 2025); Associated Press v. Budowich, No. 25-5109 (D.C. Cir., June 6, 2025 order).
• Rules and regulations: 31 CFR Part 409 (43 FR 26718, June 22, 1978); Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 65.
• Historical research: Martha Joynt Kumar, Origins of the White House Beat, White House Transition Project, 2017, particularly the discussion of William Price and the West Wing press facilities in 1902; James A. Jacobs, The President, the Press, and Proximity, White House Historical Association, 2015.
• Reporting: AP coverage of restored access on September 24, 2026; CBS coverage of the October 8 hearing, at which plaintiffs’ counsel stated that seventy-eight credentialed journalists were affected; AP coverage of the October 10 antitrust investigation; JURIST’s report on the October 9 extension of the TRO; and AP, Reuters, and USA Today coverage of the October 13 preliminary injunction.
• Verification notes: The materials above were checked through October 15, 2026. Judge Kelly granted a preliminary injunction on October 13 based on due process and First Amendment viewpoint discrimination. The Justice Department appealed on October 14; further appellate orders should be monitored. Complaints, briefs, and White House letters establish what the parties alleged, rather than that their allegations were proven. Claims in the letters of inaccurate reporting or disclosure of classified information have not been established by the court. The account of obstructed implementation on September 24 comes from witness materials submitted by the plaintiffs in support of their injunction motion and represents their account. The Justice Department’s antitrust investigation remains preliminary and does not establish unlawful conduct.

In episode 21, we discussed the People’s Republic of China’s famous “first case” of a citizen suing the government: Bao Zhengzhao and his family v. the Cangnan County government. As mentioned there, the case earned the label “first case” because of its far-reaching historical influence, not because it was literally the first such case ever to occur.

In fact, before the Administrative Litigation Law was enacted, administrative litigation cases had already begun to appear in various places. One of them predates the Bao Zhengzhao case and was the first in which a court ruled against the public security authorities: the 1987 case of the Zhu father and son v. the Lianshui County Public Security Bureau in Huaiyin, Jiangsu. This article examines that case in detail.

The Altercation and the Detention

The two protagonists of this case, Zhu Jiacheng and his son Zhu Gongbao, were farmers from Lianshui County, Huaiyin, Jiangsu. In January 1987, their relative Zhu Xiucheng got into an argument with Chen, the Party branch secretary of his company, over a year-end bonus. When the Zhu father and son heard about it, they brought several other relatives along with Zhu Xiucheng to the company to “reason” with Chen. Another account says that the father and son had come into town for a bath, stopped by the company to visit Zhu Xiucheng, happened upon his quarrel with Chen, and were drawn into it.

Whatever the origin of the incident, the Zhu father and son did clash with Chen, and there was pushing and shoving on both sides. The local public security bureau concluded that they had disturbed the work order of the unit and imposed administrative detention of seven days on Zhu Jiacheng and ten days on Zhu Gongbao.

The father and son refused to accept the penalty. They maintained that they had only been “mediating,” had not injured anyone, and should not have been punished. Although the Administrative Litigation Law had not yet been enacted at the time, the existing laws already provided a remedy channel for precisely this situation.

Appeal First

Article 39 of the Regulations on Administrative Penalties for Public Security, adopted in 1986, provided:

A person subjected to a public security penalty ruling, or a person who was harmed, who objects to a ruling by a public security organ or a township (town) people’s government may, within five days of receiving notice, lodge an appeal with the public security organ at the next higher level, which shall render a ruling within five days of receiving the appeal; a person who objects to the higher-level organ’s ruling may, within five days of receiving notice, bring suit before the local people’s court.

This was an “appeal-first” remedy model. Anyone who objected to a public security penalty first had to appeal to the higher-level public security organ; only if still dissatisfied with that organ’s handling could they sue in court. The appeal step could not be skipped. This preliminary “appeal” procedure resembled today’s administrative reconsideration, but at the time there were no unified rules governing it.

Under the rules of the time, the Zhu father and son were required first to appeal to the higher-level public security organ, the Huaiyin Municipal Public Security Bureau, and only if they objected to the appeal ruling could they bring suit in court. As for the specifics of their appeal process, the public sources available today contain no detailed record.

Administrative Adjudication

When the case reached the Lianshui County court, the procedures for hearing it rested on the 1982 Civil Procedure Law (for Trial Implementation) and the Interim Provisions on Specific Questions of Law in the People’s Courts’ Hearing of Public Security Administrative Cases, issued by the Supreme People’s Court in 1986.

Article 3, paragraph 2, of the 1982 Civil Procedure Law (for Trial Implementation) provided:

Administrative cases that the law assigns to the people’s courts for adjudication shall be governed by this Law.

This provision allowed administrative cases to borrow civil procedure. In an era when the Administrative Litigation Law had not yet appeared, it was an effective transitional measure.

Building on this, the Supreme People’s Court’s 1986 Interim Provisions set out specific hearing procedures for public security administrative cases. They provided that such cases were generally under the jurisdiction of the basic-level court where the organ that made the first ruling was located; after accepting a case, the court was to notify the public security organ that made the later ruling to respond to the suit, and that organ could designate the organ that made the original ruling to respond instead.

This “later ruling” connects with the “appeal” procedure described above. The penalty against the Zhu father and son was imposed by the Lianshui County Public Security Bureau, while the organ that made the “later” ruling, the higher-level organ that handled their appeal, was the Huaiyin Municipal Public Security Bureau. Under the provisions, then, in the court proceedings the Huaiyin bureau could respond to the suit itself or designate the Lianshui bureau to do so.

Because the judgment in this case was never made public, reports differ: some say the judgment was directed at the Huaiyin Municipal Public Security Bureau, others say the Lianshui County bureau. The accounts conflict, and this article cannot verify which is correct. But whichever organ responded, the substance of what the court had to review was the same.

Revocation

Article 4 of the Supreme People’s Court’s 1986 Interim Provisions provided:

The people’s court shall review only whether the public security organ’s later ruling conforms to the facts and is lawful, and shall accordingly render a ruling upholding or revoking it.

On this basis, the court reviewed the penalty ruling in the case at both the factual and legal levels. In the end, it held that the penalty suffered from “unclear facts, undetermined responsibility, and impropriety.” Because the judgment was never published, we cannot know the court’s specific reasoning, but the rules of the time allow some inferences.

First, “unclear facts.” The public security organ detained the Zhu father and son on the ground that they had “disturbed the order of a unit.” Under Article 19, item 1, of the Regulations on Administrative Penalties for Public Security then in force, punishing conduct that disturbs public order required that it reach the degree of “causing work to be unable to proceed normally.” In this case, the altercation between the Zhu father and son and Chen very likely never reached that degree.

Second, “undetermined responsibility.” During the altercation that day, the pushing and shoving were most likely mutual; this was not a one-sided beating of Chen by the Zhu father and son. And the dispute arose from Zhu Xiucheng’s bonus, so the father and son were not simply making trouble. In other words, both sides bore some responsibility, and it could not all be placed on the Zhu father and son.

Taken together, if the public security organ could not prove that the Zhu father and son’s conduct had reached the degree of disturbing the work order of the unit, or could not adequately establish each side’s specific responsibility in the clash, the detention penalty might lack a sufficient factual and legal basis. In the end, the court ruled to revoke the county public security bureau’s penalty.

Review and Petition

After the Lianshui County court’s judgment, the public security organ objected and applied to the Huaiyin Intermediate People’s Court for review. After reviewing the case, the Huaiyin court upheld the original ruling. The public security organ then petitioned the Jiangsu Provincial High People’s Court. Liu Tianxing, then head of the administrative division of the Jiangsu High Court, later recalled that when the case arrived at the provincial court, the administrative division reviewed it carefully, the adjudication committee discussed it, and the court concluded that the original handling was sound, and accordingly dismissed the petition.

In his recollection, Liu Tianxing also spoke of the pressure of handling the case. Other provinces’ courts, he said, telephoned to ask how revoking a public security penalty had been accomplished and whether the pressure was great. His answer was that “the pressure was great.” Some people understood such a decision as the court failing to support administrative organs in exercising their authority. The president of the provincial high court also required the case to be handled cautiously and in detail, so that the decision would withstand scrutiny. While the case was being handled, the provincial high court, as requested, sent the case file to Beijing; later it received a telephone call from the Supreme People’s Court and learned that after reading the file, Zheng Tianxiang, president of the Supreme People’s Court, also approved of the Jiangsu court’s handling.

In the end, the Lianshui County court’s revocation judgment was not overturned in the proceedings that followed. It was the court’s prudence and persistence of this kind that withstood the pressure from all sides and produced this “first case” in which the public security authorities lost.

The Judgment’s Impact

Although this case never matched the Bao Zhengzhao case in influence, it did prompt public discussion at the time. In July 1987, People’s Daily published a commentary on the case praising citizens’ growing legal awareness. The fact that a detention penalty could be reviewed by a court gave concrete usefulness to “studying the law and understanding the law.”

In April 1989, the Administrative Litigation Law was adopted. Article 3 of the original law expressly provided for the independent adjudication of administrative cases, and Article 54 provided for judgments of revocation and other forms, while allowing courts to modify administrative penalties that were manifestly unfair. The litigation rules that had been scattered across individual statutes and specialized provisions thus moved toward a unified set of rules.

As for the lives of the Zhu father and son after their victory, public sources give no complete account. Article 42 of the 1986 Regulations on Administrative Penalties for Public Security provided that where a public security penalty was erroneous, the authority should admit the error to the person punished, return fines and confiscated property, and compensate for losses where lawful rights and interests had been harmed. Whether the Zhu father and son received compensation, and whether the public security organ admitted error to them, cannot be confirmed at present.

What is certain, however, is that this lawsuit of 1987 had already demonstrated that, before the Administrative Litigation Law was enacted, China’s institution of “citizens suing officials” had already been put into practice in part. The legal professionals of that era answered history’s questions in their own way, and gave their answer in a concrete adjudication.

This article is supplementary reading for episode 21 of Reasoned Talk, “China’s ‘First Case’ Against the Government: Bao Zhengzhao v. Cangnan County Before the Administrative Litigation Law” (listen on Xiaoyuzhou ). The episode explains why the Bao Zhengzhao case came to be called the “first case”; this article focuses on the earlier Zhu father and son case and on how a court revoked a public security penalty before the Administrative Litigation Law existed.

Principal Sources

• [1] Xin Qinchang, “What Matters Is Cultivating Citizens’ Legal Awareness” (重在培养公民法律意识), People’s Daily, July 5, 1987, p. 4, public transcription .
• [2] Wang Doudou, “Thirty Years of the Rule of Law in China: The Courts’ Three Modes of Adjudication” (法治中国30年：人民法院三大审判前行足迹), Legal Daily report; Sohu reprint , July 27, 2008.
• [3] Liu Tianxing, oral account, interviewed and edited by Lu Peng, Yang Huiqi, and Dai Nuoyi, “Telling Our History: The First Public Security Administrative Case Ever Revoked in China” (讲述我们的历史｜全国第一例被撤销的公安行政案件), Jiangsu High People’s Court, February 16, 2023, full text .
• [4] Civil Procedure Law of the People’s Republic of China (for Trial Implementation), original 1982 text, Article 3, paragraph 2, historical text .
• [5] Regulations on Administrative Penalties for Public Security of the People’s Republic of China, original 1986 text, especially Articles 19, 34, 39, 40, and 42, reprinted by the Fuxin Municipal Public Security Bureau .
• [6] Supreme People’s Court, Interim Provisions on Specific Questions of Law in the People’s Courts’ Hearing of Public Security Administrative Cases, October 24, 1986, public transcription ; on which organ should respond to suit, see also the Xinhua report carried in People’s Daily, November 15, 1986, report .
• [7] Zhang Weiwei, “A Legislative Revolution Overturning ‘Officials Above the People’: The Birth of the Administrative Litigation Law” (一场颠覆"官贵民贱"的立法革命——行政诉讼法诞生录), China NPC (中国人大), No. 2, 2014, People’s Daily Online reprint .
• [8] Zhang Kuanming and Zhao Bingqing, “Those Who Contributed Quietly Behind the Scenes” (默默在幕后奉献的人), Jiangsu Courts website, March 17, 2015, full text , used only to verify the date of the intermediate court’s renaming.
• [9] Ma Huaide and Kong Xiangwen, “Achievements and Prospects of Administrative Litigation over Forty Years of Reform and Opening Up,” Peking University Law Journal (中外法学), No. 5, 2018, China Legal Studies website reprint , case passage and note 4.
• [10] Wang Hanbin, “Explanation of the Draft Administrative Litigation Law of the People’s Republic of China”; Administrative Litigation Law of the People’s Republic of China, original 1989 text, in Gazette of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress, No. 2, 1989, pp. 64–79, gazette scan .

This is the transcript of episode 21 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

August 25, 1988, Cangnan County, Wenzhou, Zhejiang. The county cinema had been converted into a courtroom. China’s national emblem hung above a pale blue backdrop, with the judges’ bench at the center of the stage. At the plaintiffs’ table on the left sat Bao Zhengzhao, a sixty-one-year-old farmer. At the defendants’ table on the right sat Huang Deyu, then the head of the Cangnan County government. More than a thousand seats in the auditorium were filled. With many people unable to get inside, the court broadcast the proceedings outside, where a large crowd had gathered at the cinema entrance.

This was the People’s Republic of China’s famous “first case of a citizen suing the government”: farmer Bao Zhengzhao and his family had brought the Cangnan County government into court. China’s Administrative Litigation Law would not be enacted until April 1989. When Bao sued, there was no dedicated law governing this kind of litigation. The Wenzhou Intermediate People’s Court, which accepted the case, could only hear it using the 1982 Civil Procedure Law (for Trial Implementation).

How did this case, which preceded the legislation, come about? And what did the court ultimately decide? That is the case we will discuss in this episode.

Why Was the House Unlawful Despite an Approval?

Although media reports often call it “Bao Zhengzhao v. the County Government,” and we usually refer to it simply as the “Bao Zhengzhao case,” Bao was not the sole plaintiff. The plaintiffs were eight members of his family: Bao and his wife, two sons and their wives, and two daughters. They sued the Cangnan County government because, in July 1987, it had sent people to demolish part of their house.

The house was in Bacao village, Cangnan County. The area is now Bacao Community in Longgang, Wenzhou, but at the time it was a village on China’s southeastern coast. A river to its south ran from southwest to northeast into the East China Sea. The Bao family’s house stood near the riverbank on the northern side. Because the location was only a few kilometers from the river mouth, the government had built a sea embankment more than five hundred meters long across the waterway for irrigation and flood control. It was an important local water-control facility.

In 1975, the Bao family dumped stones into the river to make foundations on the embankment slope and over the water, at the western end of the embankment, about fifty meters from the sluice gate. They built a two-story house of three bays, occupying 105 square meters. Because construction on the embankment had damaged it, the local government fined the family in 1983. That penalty did not stop further construction. In 1985, they again dumped stones to form foundations on the slope and over the river east of the existing house, creating another three-bay building site of 126 square meters.

Bao Zhengzhao’s second son, Bao Songcun, was then a member of the Bacao town Party committee and had previously served as the town’s water-management administrator. On August 1, 1985, Bao Songcun submitted a building application to the town’s urban construction office. The application had the local production brigade’s endorsement, but the family had not obtained the required approval from the Cangnan County water bureau. At Bao Songcun’s urging, a staff member issued an “approval notice” in the town construction office’s name consenting to the building. Bao Songcun and the others also paid 708 yuan for the land, then began construction.

After work began, the Cangnan County water bureau discovered what was happening. On September 4, 1985, it sent the Bacao town government a letter entitled “On Immediately Stopping the Unlawful Encroachment on the River Channel.” It stated that the construction was unlawful and required it to stop immediately, with all obstructions removed and the river restored to its original condition.

The county water bureau relied on the Regulations on the Administration of Water Conservancy and Hydropower Projects, issued in April 1983 by the Ministry of Water Resources and Electric Power under the State Council. Chapter Two dealt specifically with protecting these projects. The regulations provided for protected areas to be designated according to management needs; these included river channels and the land protecting both sides of their embankments. Article 9 expressly prohibited construction activities within the protected areas. Article 11 then provided:

Where it is indeed necessary to undertake construction or similar activities within the protected area of a water conservancy or hydropower project, consent must be obtained from the competent water resources and electric power authority … and approval secured through the prescribed procedures.

But, as explained earlier, the Bao family had not obtained the county water bureau’s approval when they applied to the construction office. The office had nevertheless approved the building without the water bureau’s input. That was why the county water bureau wrote to the town government demanding that all obstructions be removed and the original condition restored. The house was still under construction, and the town head informed the family of the demand. They chose to continue and eventually completed a three-story house of three bays, built with concrete, brick, and timber.

Nearly two years passed between the water bureau’s letter in 1985 and the actual demolition in 1987. During that period, the town government, county government, district office, and other authorities repeatedly urged the family to remove the unlawful construction themselves, without conditions. They did not do so. On October 22, 1986, Bao Zhengzhao applied to the town housing-management station to register ownership. The application was not approved.

On February 1, 1987, Bao Songcun used his position on the town Party committee to obtain blank stationery bearing the town government’s official seal. He wrote a letter in the town government’s name and took it to the Wenzhou planning bureau, asking it to recognize the house as lawful. On June 20, the Wenzhou planning and water bureaus issued a notice again requiring the family to remove the construction themselves, without conditions.

On June 30, the Cangnan County government issued a “Decision on the Compulsory Demolition of Bao Zhengzhao’s Unlawfully Constructed House,” relying on the State Council’s “Urgent Notice on Removing Obstructions to Flood Discharge and Storage to Ensure Flood-Control Safety.” The decision was served on July 2. On July 4, the county government organized the demolition of part of the three-bay house the family had built in 1985.

Two details matter here. First, the extent of the demolition: the government demolished portions at the rear of the three-bay house built in 1985, rather than the whole building. Second, the method: small, controlled directional blasts were used on the parts that obstructed the water most severely, with the aim of avoiding damage to other structures. The later account that the “entire building was blown up” is therefore inaccurate.

How Did the Door to Suing the Government Open?

When Bao Zhengzhao saw his house being blasted, he picked up explosives and briefly intended to kill himself together with the demolition personnel. Several of his sons stopped him. His second son, Bao Songcun, argued that they should defend their rights through legal means and went to Hangzhou to hire a lawyer. But bringing the suit proved difficult.

They first asked the Cangnan County court to register the case and were refused. Bao Songcun later recalled that a court president had rebuked them, saying in effect that the county court could not accept a lawsuit against the county government. They then approached the Wenzhou Intermediate People’s Court, which also refused to register it. The reasoning was straightforward: the Administrative Litigation Law, which would specifically govern suits against the government, had not yet been enacted, and no law had expressly made government demolition a matter on which the government could be sued directly. The court lacked a direct statutory basis for accepting their application, and there were few precedents it could draw on. For the local courts, this was a formidable challenge.

One qualification is necessary. Calling Bao Zhengzhao’s case China’s “first case” against the government refers to its influence and historical significance. It does not mean that it was literally the first such case in Chinese history. Nor did the absence of an Administrative Litigation Law mean that there was no legal route at all for suing the government.

Article 3, paragraph 2, of the 1982 Civil Procedure Law (for Trial Implementation) provided:

Administrative cases that the law assigns to the people’s courts for adjudication shall be governed by this Law.

The key words were “the law assigns.” If another law provided that a particular category of administrative case could be heard by a court, the court could use the Civil Procedure Law when hearing it. In other words, this provision connected civil procedure with other legislation. Its application depended on the existence of another law expressly identifying a matter on which a citizen could bring a suit. The provision itself did not define the categories of administrative disputes that could be litigated.

Which other laws provided specific routes for such suits? The 1979 Electoral Law allowed a person dissatisfied with an electoral commission’s decision concerning the voter list to bring proceedings in court. Although an electoral commission was not, strictly speaking, an administrative agency, this opened a route for challenging an official decision. Several tax laws adopted in 1980 and 1981 provided routes for bringing tax disputes to court. The 1986 Regulations on Administrative Penalties for Public Security allowed a person dissatisfied with a ruling on an appeal against a public-security penalty to sue. In March 1987, a court in Lianshui County, Huai’an, Jiangsu, revoked a public-security penalty ruling by the Huaiyin public security bureau, becoming the first court since 1982 to rule against a public security authority. Before the Administrative Litigation Law was enacted in 1989, more than 130 laws and administrative regulations had specified matters on which citizens and organizations could sue administrative agencies. These cases could use the procedures laid down in the Civil Procedure Law.

Alongside these legal rules, the courts were developing the necessary institutions. In October 1986, the Wuhan Intermediate People’s Court in Hubei established the country’s first administrative division, while the Miluo County court in Yueyang, Hunan, established the first such division at the basic court level. In response to requests from courts around the country, the Supreme People’s Court issued its “Notice on Establishing Administrative Divisions” in January 1987. It called for a positive but cautious approach: pilot the arrangement first, then expand it. In October 1988, the Supreme People’s Court formally established its own administrative division. By the time the Administrative Litigation Law was enacted in 1989, courts at different levels had established more than 1,400 administrative divisions.

So, when the Bao Zhengzhao case arose, China had not yet enacted a unified Administrative Litigation Law, but scattered provisions already existed and courts had begun creating separate administrative divisions. Administrative litigation in the People’s Republic developed through practice preceding legislation.

Returning to the case itself, the courts in Cangnan and Wenzhou hesitated to register it chiefly because no statute had placed government demolition within the scope of administrative litigation. Naming the county government itself as defendant, rather than one of its constituent agencies, was also extremely unusual. The lawyer hired by the Bao family helped turn the situation around.

The family’s lawyer was Lou Xian, who also served as legal adviser to the newspaper Economic Life. After meeting the family, he reassured them and urged Bao Zhengzhao to trust the law rather than take drastic action that would escalate the conflict. At the same time, he organized the materials and published them in the newspaper as a legal consultation, drawing greater attention to the case. He then wrote to the president of the Zhejiang Provincial High People’s Court about the family’s inability to have their suit accepted. That letter became the turning point.

In February 1988, the Zhejiang Provincial High People’s Court designated the Wenzhou Intermediate People’s Court to hear the case. Because there was no Administrative Litigation Law and the Wenzhou court had no administrative division, it registered the dispute as a civil case, assigned a civil case number, and used the procedures in the 1982 Civil Procedure Law (for Trial Implementation). In March 1988, the Wenzhou court formally accepted the case and decided to hold a public hearing. That led to the scene with which this episode began.

Why Did the Bao Family Lose?

On August 25, 1988, Bao Zhengzhao’s case against the Cangnan County government opened in the temporary courtroom that the Wenzhou Intermediate People’s Court had set up inside the county cinema. The hearing ran from morning until after ten at night. According to later accounts, the plaintiffs’ lawyers presented seventy-one items of evidence and delivered submissions of more than thirty thousand Chinese characters; the defendant’s representatives submitted sixteen pages of argument.

The dispute was clear. The plaintiffs argued that the family had obtained an approval notice from the construction office, giving the house a lawful basis. The county government’s demolition infringed their property rights, and it should restore the property or compensate them. The defendant argued that the house obstructed flood discharge and had been built without the water authorities’ approval, making it unlawful. Demolishing it to protect the embankment and residents downstream was therefore lawful.

Resolving the dispute required answers to three questions:

1. Was the demolished part of the house within the protected area, and did it obstruct flood discharge?
2. Did the construction office have authority to approve building on water-control facilities and river channels, and what legal effect did its approval have?
3. Did the county government have a legal basis for demolition, and what extent of demolition was appropriate?

Three days after the hearing, in late August 1988, the Wenzhou court delivered its first-instance judgment. It addressed these three questions in turn.

First, on the house’s location and protection of the embankment, the court held that the sea embankment was an important water-control facility serving four districts and two towns in Cangnan. It kept out saltwater, stored freshwater, drained excess water, irrigated farmland, and protected against tides and floods. It served 200,000 mu of irrigated farmland and the lives and property of 500,000 people. No organization or individual could unlawfully encroach on it. The river channel south of the embankment was a principal route for flood discharge and drainage, where the relevant regulations strictly prohibited obstructions. The family’s new house stood on the southern slope and over the river at the western end of the embankment. It was within the protected area, obstructed flood discharge, and endangered the sluice and embankment.

Second, on the construction office’s approval, the court held that the Bacao town construction office had no authority to approve construction on water-control facilities or river channels without the competent water authority’s consent. Its approval violated the relevant legal provisions and was therefore invalid.

Third, on the legal basis for compulsory demolition, the court held that the plaintiffs had failed to learn from the penalty imposed for their unlawful construction in 1975. They had again damaged the embankment and filled the river to build in 1985, violating rules issued by the State Council, the Ministry of Water Resources and Electric Power, and the Zhejiang provincial government. The construction was unlawful. After the plaintiffs failed to comply with notices requiring them to remove it themselves, the county government acted lawfully in relying on the relevant State Council rules to demolish portions of the unlawfully built house.

On that basis, the court relied on the Regulations on the Administration of Water Conservancy and Hydropower Projects and the State Council’s urgent notice on clearing flood-control obstructions to dismiss the plaintiffs’ claims. The plaintiffs were ordered to pay the litigation and appraisal costs. The judgment also specifically criticized Bao Songcun: as a member of the Bacao town Party committee and a former water-management administrator, he had disregarded the law, ignored warnings, built unlawfully, and refused to remove the obstructions. The court described his conduct as particularly serious.

The family appealed to the Zhejiang Provincial High People’s Court. According to later reports, Ren Jianxin, then president of the Supreme People’s Court, saw a report in China Youth Daily and issued an instruction that the Zhejiang court handle the case according to law. On December 26, 1988, the Zhejiang court delivered its final judgment, dismissing the appeal and upholding the original decision.

The case was over. This “first case” of a citizen suing the government ended in defeat for the plaintiffs. The judgment’s significance lay less in whether the family won than in its distinctive place in legal history. It was a “civil judgment,” bore a civil first-instance case number, and was delivered by a civil division. Its reasoning and allocation of the burden of proof did not follow the standard framework of administrative litigation. Yet it brought the unfamiliar idea of suing the government into public view. On the eve of the Administrative Litigation Law’s enactment, people could see a government appear as defendant and respond in court to a citizen’s challenge.

From Judicial Practice to Unified Legislation

Viewed across Chinese legal history, administrative law and administrative litigation were not entirely new concepts. As early as 1914, the Beijing government enacted China’s first Administrative Litigation Law. In 1932, the Nationalist government in Nanjing promulgated another Administrative Litigation Law as part of its “Six Codes.” After the People’s Republic was founded, the old Six Codes were abolished. By the 1980s, China had not yet enacted a unified Administrative Litigation Law; the relevant provisions were scattered across separate laws and regulations.

Meanwhile, preparations for legislation had begun. After the General Principles of Civil Law were adopted in 1986, Tao Xijin, then an adviser to the National People’s Congress Law Committee, proposed at a symposium that the People’s Republic establish a new system of six fundamental laws. Criminal law, criminal procedure, the General Principles of Civil Law, and civil procedure already existed. What was missing was administrative law and administrative litigation law. Wang Hanbin, then secretary-general of the NPC Standing Committee, endorsed the proposal. An administrative legislation research group was subsequently established, with Jiang Ping as chair and Luo Haocai and Ying Songnian as deputy chairs.

The group initially planned to draft General Principles of Administrative Law, modeled on the General Principles of Civil Law. Progress was difficult because theoretical groundwork and practical experience were insufficient. It then turned to procedural legislation and soon produced a preliminary draft of the Administrative Litigation Law. In 1987, the report to the Communist Party’s Thirteenth National Congress expressly called for such a law, accelerating the legislative process. By the time the Bao Zhengzhao case was heard in August 1988, drafting had already been underway for two years. On April 4, 1989, the National People’s Congress formally adopted the Administrative Litigation Law. It took effect on October 1, 1990.

The law contained seventy-five articles and comprehensively addressed the different aspects of administrative litigation.

First, it unified the right to bring proceedings. Article 2 provided that citizens, legal persons, and other organizations who considered that a specific administrative act by an administrative agency or its personnel infringed their lawful rights and interests could bring a suit in a people’s court under the law. This converted rights to sue that had previously been scattered across separate statutes into a unified rule.

Second, it clarified the standard of review. Article 5 provided that, in hearing administrative cases, the people’s courts would review whether specific administrative acts were lawful. This was crucial: it defined legality as the central question. In a case like Bao Zhengzhao’s, for example, the court would need to examine whether the county government’s demolition was lawful; whether the plaintiffs had repeatedly failed to learn their lesson would no longer be the subject of adjudication.

Third, it established the defendant’s burden of proof. Article 32 provided that the defendant—the administrative agency—bore the burden of proving the specific administrative act it had taken, and had to produce both the supporting evidence and the normative documents on which it relied. Article 33 further provided that, during litigation, the defendant could not collect evidence from the plaintiff or witnesses on its own. This differed from the civil-litigation principle that the party making an assertion must prove it. It required the administrative agency to establish the legality of its own action, rather than requiring the citizen to prove that the action was unlawful.

The law also provided for separate administrative adjudication structures, equal procedural standing for plaintiffs and defendants, and a statutory basis for compensation for harm, among other matters.

Of course, the legislative process was far from smooth. During deliberations, some deputies argued that implementing the Administrative Litigation Law might create difficulties for rural family-planning work and state grain procurement. Others suggested postponing its adoption. In its report on the results of deliberation dated April 1, 1989, the Law Committee made several changes. One was to delete the draft provision that compensation should be calculated on the basis of direct loss. The stated reason was that “there are differing understandings of what constitutes direct loss; compensation for administrative infringement is complex and requires further study.”

The 1989 law was therefore not a perfect outcome. Much remained to be improved, and China’s vast system of local courts needed time to adapt to this new institution.

The Bao Family After the Judgment

Finally, let us return to the Bao Zhengzhao case. At the end of the 1988 hearing, county head Huang Deyu walked over to the family and shook their hands. He said: “Whatever the outcome of the lawsuit, your family are citizens of Cangnan County, and the government will continue to serve you.” This scene appeared in retrospective reports and historical accounts years later, becoming a small footnote to the “first case” against the government.

The family did not subsequently face harassment for suing the government. The lawsuit also remained part of the family’s memory. Two years after the case ended, Bao Songcun’s son was born, and he named him “Bao Susong”—“litigation.” His daughter later went to university and studied law. Bao Zhengzhao died of illness in 2002. Before his death, he called his children and grandchildren to his bedside and told them to learn the law, understand it, and abide by it. For an elderly man who had once wanted to take up explosives, finding a place where he could argue his case and have his position heard was already something worth remembering.

The old house at the center of the dispute also found a new purpose. During the redevelopment of Bacao fishing port, the government acquired the Bao family’s old home. Later, the Longgang municipal Party committee and government decided to retain three rooms of the house and renovate and develop the site into the Longgang Rule of Law Museum. The museum displays the original notice to respond to the suit, the judgments, footage of the hearing, and interviews with those involved. The lawsuit that had once drawn national attention was preserved at the place where it began.

From a house that had been partly demolished to a museum recording legal history, the family’s defeat remained unchanged. But their experience of suing the government became a public memory worth preserving. Looking back, what we should remember is that there must be somewhere to question government decisions and a procedure through which to review them. Subjecting power to legal scrutiny and giving citizens a place to make their case: that is the significance the Bao Zhengzhao case leaves us.

ShowNotes

In This Episode

• A courtroom inside a cinema: A farmer sues the county government, the county head appears in court, and a public hearing runs from morning into the night.
• An approval, but still an unlawful building: Tracing the dispute from a house on a river embankment and the town construction office’s approval to the water authorities’ demand to remove obstructions.
• Opening the door to suing the government: After two courts refuse to register the case, lawyer Lou Xian uses newspaper coverage and a letter to the provincial high court to help secure a hearing.
• Suits against the government before the “first case”: Statutory provisions scattered across separate laws, administrative cases heard under civil procedure, and the establishment of administrative divisions in the courts.
• Why the family lost: Whether the house obstructed flood discharge, whether the construction office had approval authority, and whether the county government had a legal basis for demolition.
• From judicial practice to unified legislation: The history of earlier administrative litigation laws, drafting in the 1980s, and the basic rules established by the 1989 Administrative Litigation Law.
• The family after the judgment: A handshake after the hearing, a child named “Litigation,” and the transformation of the disputed old house into the Longgang Rule of Law Museum.

Key Timeline

• 1975–1983: The family creates foundations and builds on the embankment slope and over the river. It is later fined for encroaching on water-control facilities.
• August–September 1985: Bao Songcun applies for an extension, and the town construction office issues an approval. The county water authorities subsequently demand an end to the unlawful encroachment on the river, but the family continues building.
• July 4, 1987: The Cangnan County government forcibly demolishes portions at the rear of the house the family built in 1985.
• February–March 1988: The Zhejiang Provincial High People’s Court designates the Wenzhou Intermediate People’s Court to hear the case; the latter formally registers it.
• August 25, 1988: A public hearing takes place in the Cangnan County cinema, with county head Huang Deyu appearing for the defendant.
• August 28, 1988: The Wenzhou court dismisses the claims of Bao Zhengzhao and the other seven plaintiffs at first instance.
• December 26, 1988: The Zhejiang high court dismisses the appeal and upholds the original judgment.
• April 4, 1989: The Administrative Litigation Law of the People’s Republic of China is adopted.
• October 1, 1990: The Administrative Litigation Law takes effect.
• 2002 and afterward: Bao Zhengzhao dies of illness in 2002. The old house is later acquired during fishing-port redevelopment; three retained rooms are renovated and developed into the Longgang Rule of Law Museum.

People

• Bao Zhengzhao (包郑照): A farmer from Bacao village, Cangnan, Zhejiang, and the lead plaintiff. Eight members of the family joined the suit.
• Bao Songcun (包松村): Bao Zhengzhao’s second son, then a member of the Bacao town Party committee and a former town water-management administrator. He was involved in obtaining the building approval and encouraged the family to resolve the dispute through litigation.
• Huang Deyu (黄德余): Then head of the Cangnan County government, appearing in court on behalf of the defendant, the Cangnan County People’s Government.
• Lou Xian (楼献): The family’s lawyer and legal adviser to Economic Life. He helped secure registration of the case by organizing the materials, publishing them in the newspaper, and writing to the provincial high court.
• Tao Xijin (陶希晋) and Wang Hanbin (王汉斌): Important figures in advancing administrative legislation in the People’s Republic.
• Jiang Ping (江平), Luo Haocai (罗豪才), and Ying Songnian (应松年): Chair and deputy chairs of the administrative legislation research group, involved in researching and drafting the Administrative Litigation Law.

Laws and Concepts

• The “first case” of a citizen suing the government: A description of the Bao Zhengzhao case’s influence and historical importance. Before the unified Administrative Litigation Law was enacted, administrative litigation already existed under provisions in individual laws and regulations.
• Article 3, paragraph 2, of the Civil Procedure Law (for Trial Implementation): Administrative cases assigned by law to the courts were to use civil procedure. The provision itself did not establish a unified scope of administrative acts that could be challenged.
• Building approval and approval authority: Construction within a water-control project’s protected area required consent from the competent water authority and approval through prescribed procedures. The first-instance court held that the town construction office could not approve this construction on its own and that its approval was invalid.
• The Regulations on the Administration of Water Conservancy and Hydropower Projects and the State Council’s notice on removing obstructions: The principal normative documents on which the first-instance court relied to decide whether the house was unlawful and whether the county government had a basis for demolition.
• Legality review: Article 5 of the 1989 Administrative Litigation Law expressly required courts to review the legality of specific administrative acts.
• The defendant’s burden of proof: Articles 32 and 33 of the original 1989 law required administrative agencies to produce the evidence and legal basis for their acts and prohibited them from collecting evidence from plaintiffs or witnesses on their own during litigation.
• Longgang Rule of Law Museum: Created through the renovation and development of three retained rooms of the family’s old home, it displays litigation documents, hearing footage, and interviews, preserving the public memory of the case.

Related Episodes

• 13 China’s “First Constitutional Case”: Qi Yuling’s Stolen Right to Education : Another case famous as a “first,” examining how courts respond to citizens’ claims of rights.
• 15 The Sun Zhigang Case: The End of Custody and Repatriation : Another individual case through which to consider the relationship between adjudication, public debate, and institutional change.

Principal References

• Wenzhou Intermediate People’s Court, Zhejiang, Civil Judgment, (1988) Civil First Instance No. 1, August 28, 1988; reproduced in Appendix Three of Huang Chuanhui, China’s “Challenger”: The Story of the First Farmer’s Lawsuit Against a County Head (中国的「挑战者」号——首例农民告县长案始末), Haichao Publishing House, 1990.
• Gao Haihao, “A Farmer Sues the County Government” (农民告县府), People’s Daily, August 25, 1988.
• Civil Procedure Law of the People’s Republic of China (for Trial Implementation), 1982; Regulations on the Administration of Water Conservancy and Hydropower Projects, 1983; Administrative Litigation Law of the People’s Republic of China, original 1989 text.
• Wang Hanbin, “Explanation of the Draft Administrative Litigation Law of the People’s Republic of China”; NPC Law Committee report on the results of deliberation on two draft laws, published in the Gazette of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress, No. 2, 1989.
• Ma Huaide and Kong Xiangwen, “Achievements and Prospects of Administrative Litigation over Forty Years of Reform and Opening Up” (改革开放四十年行政诉讼的成就与展望), Peking University Law Journal (中外法学), No. 5, 2018.
• Wenzhou Publicity, “The Light of the Rule of Law in a City of Reform” (改革之城的法治之光), Wenzhou News Network, February 8, 2024.

The account of the dispute and the court’s reasoning is based primarily on the first-instance judgment. Details such as the handshake after the hearing come from later retrospective accounts. Discussion of the Administrative Litigation Law uses the provisions of the original 1989 law.

This is the English translation of the transcript of episode 20 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). The episode is in Chinese. You can listen to this episode on Xiaoyuzhou , Apple Podcasts , or Spotify .

On December 1, 2018, Meng Wanzhou, then Huawei’s vice chairwoman and chief financial officer, was changing planes at Vancouver International Airport on her way to Mexico. Canadian police arrested her at the request of the United States. The U.S. government accused Huawei of using Skycom, a company registered in Hong Kong, to resell American technology products to Iran in violation of U.S. sanctions. As one of Huawei’s most senior executives, Meng became a target of the prosecution.

For nearly three years afterward, Meng’s name remained at the center of international attention. Although released on bail, she could not leave Vancouver and remained under surveillance. Extradition hearings followed one after another, while relations among China, the United States, and Canada became deadlocked over the case. On September 22, 2021, Meng entered into a deferred prosecution agreement with the U.S. Department of Justice. The agreement was made public two days later, and she returned to China. In 2022, the U.S. government dismissed the charges against her.

To many people, the matter seemed to be over. But on September 9, 2026, another trial began in federal court in the Eastern District of New York. This time, the U.S. government was no longer prosecuting Meng personally. The defendants were Huawei and three of its subsidiaries, and documents Meng signed in 2021 could become highly damaging evidence against the company.

Why, then, did Huawei finally face a U.S. criminal trial four years after Meng returned home? That is the subject of this episode.

Skycom, Iran, and the Bank-Fraud Allegations

U.S. prosecutors had in fact obtained an indictment against Huawei in August 2018. It was not made public until January 2019, more than a month after Meng’s arrest in Canada. The defendants named at the time included Huawei, Huawei Device USA, Hong Kong-based Skycom, and Meng herself. The principal charges included bank fraud, wire fraud, violations of U.S. sanctions on Iran, and obstruction of justice.

To understand these allegations, we first need to look at Skycom. The company was registered in Hong Kong, but its principal business was in Iran. According to the statement Meng confirmed in 2021, all of Skycom’s shares were held by Huawei subsidiary Hua Ying Management in February 2007. In November of that year, the shares were transferred from Hua Ying to another company, Canicula, which Huawei also controlled.

Meng joined Skycom’s board in February 2008 and served until April 2009. The other directors were Huawei employees. Canicula continued to hold Skycom’s shares after Meng left the board, and Huawei continued to control Canicula. From 2010 through 2014, Huawei made Skycom’s major business decisions in Iran. People who worked at Skycom understood that they were working for Huawei and used Huawei email addresses.

The same document states that, from 2010 through 2014, Huawei arranged approximately $100 million in transactions through Skycom and a multinational financial institution. The transactions were ultimately cleared in the United States. They included $7.5 million paid to a British staffing company for engineers assigned to Iran.

In December 2012 and January 2013, Reuters and other media outlets published reports on the relationship between Huawei and Skycom. The reports also said that Skycom had offered equipment made by restricted U.S. vendors to Iran’s largest mobile-network operator.

A bank that continued to process U.S.-dollar transactions connected with business in Iran through the American financial system could face civil or criminal liability. After the reports appeared, the bank providing Huawei with international settlement services asked the company for an explanation. Reuters identified that bank as HSBC. On August 22, 2013, Meng met with HSBC executives and presented a PowerPoint deck describing Skycom as Huawei’s “business partner” and a “third party.” She acknowledged that Huawei had once held shares in Skycom, but said that all of them had since been sold. She also said that Huawei’s business in Iran complied strictly with applicable laws and sanctions.

If the statement Meng signed in 2021 was accurate, her 2013 explanation to HSBC was problematic. It meant she had concealed the true relationship between Huawei and Skycom: the shares had merely moved from one Huawei subsidiary to another Huawei-controlled entity, rather than passing beyond Huawei’s control. HSBC continued its business relationship with Huawei after the meeting.

This leaves two principal legal threads from the early indictment. First, prosecutors alleged that Huawei and Skycom violated sanctions on Iran. Second, they alleged that Huawei concealed its true relationship with Skycom through false statements to the bank, thereby committing bank and wire fraud. Before the 2026 trial began, however, prosecutors decided not to proceed on two of the sanctions counts.

Why does US law have jurisdiction?

Skycom’s business in Iran involved U.S.-dollar transactions cleared through the American financial system, while Huawei’s U.S. subsidiaries also participated in some of the relevant business. Those facts gave prosecutors several possible connections through which to apply U.S. law.

Strictly speaking, the question of U.S. jurisdiction over Huawei has three distinct layers. First, did the cross-border business have sufficiently concrete connections to the United States? Second, could each particular U.S. statute apply to conduct occurring abroad? Third, even if U.S. law applied, could the government obtain evidence, bring the defendants before the court, and enforce any judgment? These questions are often grouped together under the label “long-arm jurisdiction,” but that label can obscure their differences.

The first layer concerns the connection between the conduct and the United States. A cross-border transaction rarely occurs in only one place. A contract might be signed in Hong Kong, the goods sent to Iran, and the payment instruction issued in Europe, while a correspondent bank in New York clears the dollars. If one part of the transaction occurs in the United States and that step violates U.S. law, the transaction is no longer conduct occurring wholly outside the country. U.S. law may then have jurisdiction.

That is the theory behind the dollar transactions in this case. The critical point is not merely that the currency was the U.S. dollar. The indictment specifically alleges that transactions connected with Skycom between 2010 and 2014 cleared through banks located in the United States. Prosecutors therefore contend that part of the banking services, movement of funds, and resulting sanctions risk arose within U.S. territory.

The second layer is that a connection to the United States does not allow every U.S. law to extend indefinitely abroad. The Supreme Court has long applied a principle known as the presumption against extraterritoriality. Morrison v. National Australia Bank in 2010 and RJR Nabisco v. European Community in 2016 set out a two-step method. A court first asks whether Congress clearly indicated that the statute applies abroad. If so, the law applies within the scope Congress specified. If not, the court asks what the statute principally regulates and where the conduct relevant to that focus occurred.

Different charges therefore follow different paths to extraterritorial application. Federal trade-secret law, for example, can reach conduct abroad when the offender is a U.S. citizen, permanent resident, or organization, or when an act in furtherance of the offense occurs in the United States. The money-laundering statute provides extraterritorial jurisdiction over a foreign national when part of the conduct occurs in the United States and the relevant transaction exceeds $10,000. That is why each charge in this case requires its own connecting facts.

The third layer concerns the practical ability of the United States to exercise jurisdiction abroad. U.S. statutes may declare that certain crimes have extraterritorial effect, and U.S. courts may hear those cases, but enforcing the law and the resulting judgment is a separate matter. American police, for example, could not arrest Meng directly in Canada. They had to request Canada’s assistance through the extradition process; otherwise, they could only wait for the accused to enter U.S. territory.

“Long-arm jurisdiction” is therefore not a simple or self-explanatory concept. It combines several difficult questions that must be considered separately.

Charges brought by the United States

In February 2020, before Meng returned to China or entered into the deferred prosecution agreement, prosecutors filed a third superseding indictment. It added three principal charges, including conspiracy to steal trade secrets and conspiracy to commit wire fraud in connection with intellectual-property disputes. Because the indictment covers many allegations, this episode focuses on two representative examples. The following account describes what prosecutors are seeking to prove in court. Except where an existing civil judgment says otherwise, these allegations have not yet been established and do not represent the views of this podcast.

With that caveat in place, consider the T-Mobile incident. In 2006, T-Mobile developed a phone-testing system called Tappy in its laboratory. A mechanical arm fitted with a rubber tip could imitate the way a person taps, swipes, and types on a phone screen. In a matter of hours, it could simulate months of use and expose software lag or display faults before a product reached customers.

According to prosecutors, Huawei Device USA began supplying phones to T-Mobile in 2010. In 2012, T-Mobile allowed a small number of authorized Huawei employees into the laboratory to test devices that Huawei planned to deliver. The companies signed a nondisclosure agreement prohibiting photographs, video recordings, and reverse engineering during the testing process. In May 2013, an unauthorized Huawei employee entered the laboratory with several authorized employees and took photographs of the robot. About two weeks later, an authorized Huawei employee removed a key component from the robot and carried it out of the lab. Surveillance cameras recorded both incidents, and the footage later became important evidence for prosecutors.

T-Mobile complained to Huawei. Huawei said that individual employees had violated company policy and later dismissed the employee involved. In 2014, T-Mobile sued Huawei in federal court in Seattle. A jury found in 2017 that Huawei had breached the nondisclosure agreement and misappropriated T-Mobile’s trade secrets, but it did not find that Huawei had acted willfully and maliciously. Federal prosecutors later incorporated the same events into the criminal indictment as part of the trade-secret allegations.

Next is the Quintel incident. In 2009, British company Quintel approached Huawei about possible cooperation in mobile antennas. Futurewei, Huawei’s U.S. research subsidiary, signed a nondisclosure agreement with Quintel limiting the use of confidential information to the parties’ discussions about a collaboration. Quintel then demonstrated an antenna technology that could adjust its angle according to users’ locations and improve signal quality. At Huawei engineers’ request, it later provided additional technical material.

The collaboration did not proceed. Prosecutors allege that, little more than a month after receiving the material, Futurewei filed a patent application with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office that made extensive use of technology Quintel had disclosed. Futurewei obtained the patent in 2014. Quintel allegedly learned of it only when Futurewei’s earlier patent surfaced during Quintel’s application for a European patent in 2015. Quintel then sued Huawei for trade-secret misappropriation and sought correction of the named inventors.

Prosecutors further allege that Huawei earned approximately $22 million between 2009 and 2016 from products using the intellectual property. They incorporated this episode into the superseding indictment as well.

The core of the case: RICO

At first glance, these events arose at different times, in different places, and on different lines of business. The central move in the 2020 indictment was to connect them by charging Huawei and several affiliated companies with a RICO conspiracy.

RICO is the abbreviation for the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. Congress enacted it in 1970 as part of the Organized Crime Control Act. Although originally used primarily against the Mafia, it later came to cover corporations and other forms of organization. Its provisions now appear at 18 U.S.C. §§ 1961–1968.

Here, prosecutors charged Huawei and affiliated entities under § 1962(d) with conspiring to violate RICO. Three concepts are particularly important to understanding that charge.

The first is an enterprise. Under RICO, an enterprise may be a legally organized corporation or a group of entities associated and operating continuously for a common purpose. Prosecutors refer to Huawei and several affiliated companies as the “Huawei Enterprise,” alleging that they shared a common purpose and an ongoing organizational relationship.

The second is a pattern of racketeering activity. RICO lists offenses that can serve as predicate acts. The indictment in this case identifies bank fraud, wire fraud, trade-secret theft, money laundering, obstruction of justice, and criminal copyright infringement, among others. To prove the RICO conspiracy, prosecutors must establish an agreement that conspirators would commit a series of related predicate offenses reflecting continuity.

The third concept is conspiracy: an agreement to carry out the RICO violation. A conspiracy is not simply a collection of separate incidents, and no single person must commit every predicate offense. The crucial question is whether the defendants knowingly joined the common agreement. For corporate defendants, the court and jury must also determine which employees’ conduct and states of mind may legally be attributed to each company.

Whether senior management knew, whether the company rewarded employees for obtaining competitors’ confidential information, and whether the incidents followed similar patterns could all serve as evidence of a common agreement. Prosecutors must prove every element of the RICO conspiracy against each defendant beyond a reasonable doubt. The defense, by contrast, can argue that the conduct involved isolated employees acting improperly or outside their authority, that management did not approve it, and that the company took corrective action after learning of it. It can also argue that the incidents were not connected by any common agreement and that prosecutors have not proved an agreement to invest proceeds derived from the alleged pattern in the enterprise. If these objections create reasonable doubt about any element, the corresponding RICO conspiracy charge cannot be sustained.

That is the issue the jury must ultimately decide: whether events scattered across more than two decades were isolated incidents selected and assembled by prosecutors, or whether they prove a company-level agreement satisfying RICO’s requirements for an enterprise, a pattern of racketeering activity, and the use or investment of proceeds.

In April 2026, prosecutors filed a fourth superseding indictment that reorganized the case into fourteen counts. They withdrew two counts on September 4, leaving twelve for trial. Jury selection began in the Eastern District of New York on September 8, and the parties delivered opening statements on September 9.

In those openings, the two sides offered opposing accounts of whether a criminal conspiracy existed within Huawei. Prosecutors said that the company had treated crime as a business strategy over the preceding two decades. Defense counsel said that the government had selected a handful of unrelated incidents from the enormous history of a multinational company, involving people who in some instances had never met and worked thousands of miles apart.

Key Evidence and Ongoing Trial

As noted earlier, prosecutors possess a potentially damaging piece of evidence: the Statement of Facts that Meng signed and confirmed in 2021. The four-page document acknowledges that Huawei controlled Skycom, that Huawei employees operated Skycom’s business in Iran, that the business used U.S.-dollar transactions, and that statements Meng made to HSBC in 2013 were untrue.

Section 6 of the deferred prosecution agreement provides that, if the United States prosecuted Meng again, the government could use the Statement of Facts as evidence and she could not contradict it during the proceeding.

In June 2026, the judge ruled that the statement could also be used in Huawei’s criminal trial. Meng was, and remains, Huawei’s chief financial officer, the judge reasoned, and the statement concerned conduct undertaken as part of her corporate duties. Huawei therefore could not exclude the document.

In effect, the court treated Meng’s statement as Huawei’s own adopted statement, rather than as a statement by an outside witness. Had Meng been treated as a third-party witness, she would have had to appear at trial and be available for cross-examination. Once the statement was classified as Huawei’s own adopted statement, prosecutors did not need to call Meng in person in order to offer it.

The jury must assess every count separately: which alleged facts were proved, which conduct may be attributed to each corporate defendant, whether that conduct satisfies the elements of each offense, and whether the separate incidents were connected by a conspiracy.

Many stages remain. A first-instance verdict may not arrive until the end of 2026 or later. If the jury finds Huawei guilty of the RICO conspiracy, the company could face a substantial fine and forfeiture of unlawful proceeds, as well as compliance monitoring after judgment.

Which of the two competing narratives will cross the legal threshold? How will United States v. Huawei—a case stretching across more than two decades, multiple countries, and intense diplomatic and political controversy—ultimately end? We will return to those questions after the Eastern District of New York reaches a decision. Look for Part II of this story.

This case remains pending. Except for final civil judgments and procedural rulings already in force, all statements below concerning criminal liability describe allegations by prosecutors, statements made at trial, or witness testimony. Huawei has pleaded not guilty. The trial information in this episode is current through September 18, 2026.

Key Timeline

• 2007–2014: According to the Statement of Facts confirmed by Meng, Skycom’s shares moved from Hua Ying Management to Canicula, another entity still controlled by Huawei. Meng served as a Skycom director; Huawei made Skycom’s major business decisions in Iran; and related dollar payments cleared through the United States.
• 2009–2016: Quintel’s antenna discussions with Futurewei, the subsequent patent application, and resulting litigation were later incorporated into the intellectual-property allegations.
• December 2012–August 2013: Media reports examined the relationship between Huawei and Skycom. On August 22, 2013, Meng described Skycom to a bank as Huawei’s “business partner” and a “third party.”
• 2013–2017: The Tappy incident occurred, after which T-Mobile brought a civil action. In 2017, a jury found that Huawei had breached its confidentiality obligations and misappropriated T-Mobile’s trade secrets, but did not find that it acted willfully and maliciously.
• August 2018–January 2019: An indictment was filed under seal in the Eastern District of New York. Meng was arrested in Canada in December 2018, and the indictment was unsealed in January 2019.
• February 2020: The third superseding indictment added a RICO conspiracy, conspiracy to steal trade secrets, and related wire-fraud conspiracy allegations, bringing the case to sixteen counts.
• September 2021–2022: Meng entered into a deferred prosecution agreement and returned to China. After she fulfilled the agreement, the charges against her were dismissed while the corporate case continued.
• April–June 2026: A fourth superseding indictment reorganized the case into fourteen counts. The court later ruled that Meng’s Statement of Facts could be used in the corporate trial.
• September 2026: Prosecutors declined to proceed on two sanctions counts, leaving twelve counts for trial. Jury selection began on September 8, and the parties delivered opening statements on September 9.

Key Parties and Events

• Meng Wanzhou: Huawei’s chief financial officer. She is no longer a defendant in the corporate trial, but the four-page Statement of Facts she signed in 2021 has become important evidence.
• Skycom, Hua Ying Management, and Canicula: The transfer of shares and the entities’ actual control relationships form the basis of prosecutors’ account of Huawei’s business in Iran and its statements to the bank. The charging documents did not identify the bank; Reuters identified it as HSBC.
• T-Mobile and Tappy: Tappy is a phone-testing robot designed to simulate a user’s finger movements. The civil judgment is final, but the same facts must be tested again under the higher burden of proof governing the criminal case.
• Quintel and Futurewei: Prosecutors allege that Futurewei applied for a patent after receiving Quintel’s confidential antenna information. The criminal allegation remains for the jury to decide.

Core Legal Concepts

• Deferred prosecution agreement (DPA): An agreement suspending prosecution for a specified period. If the defendant performs the agreed obligations, prosecutors apply to dismiss the charges. A DPA is neither an acquittal nor a guilty plea.
• Statement of Facts: Meng confirmed that its contents were true and accurate. Section 6 of the agreement primarily addresses the document’s use if she were prosecuted again. Its use in Huawei’s trial instead depends on whether the court finds that the company adopted her statement.
• Contacts, jurisdiction, and extraterritoriality: Dollar clearing through the United States and participation by U.S. subsidiaries can create connections to the country, but whether a particular federal criminal statute applies to conduct abroad must still be analyzed statute by statute. The use of dollars alone is not enough.
• RICO conspiracy: Under 18 U.S.C. § 1962(d), prosecutors allege an agreement to violate § 1962(a) by using or investing income derived from a pattern of predicate offenses in the “Huawei Enterprise.” The government must prove not only the enterprise, predicate pattern, and common agreement, but also the required relationship between the proceeds and their use or investment.
• Corporate attribution and the burden of proof: When an employee’s conduct and state of mind can be attributed to a corporation is a central issue. Prosecutors must prove every count against each defendant beyond a reasonable doubt. The admission of evidence does not require the jury to credit it.

Principal Cases and Statutes

• United States v. Huawei Technologies Co., Ltd. (E.D.N.Y. No. 1:18-cr-00457): the principal case discussed in this episode.
• T-Mobile USA, Inc. v. Huawei Device USA, Inc. (W.D. Wash. No. 2:14-cv-01351): the civil Tappy case.
• Morrison v. National Australia Bank Ltd., 561 U.S. 247 (2010): reaffirmed the presumption against extraterritorial application of federal statutes and focused the inquiry on the object of the particular law and the location of the relevant conduct.
• RJR Nabisco, Inc. v. European Community, 579 U.S. 325 (2016): established the two-step extraterritoriality framework and held that some substantive RICO provisions can reach conduct abroad to the extent the relevant predicate offenses themselves apply extraterritorially. It did not resolve every question concerning the extraterritorial application of every RICO provision.
• 18 U.S.C. §§ 1961, 1962: RICO’s definitions, substantive prohibitions, and conspiracy provision.
• 18 U.S.C. §§ 1343, 1344, 1832, 1956, 1512, 2319: Provisions concerning wire fraud, bank fraud, trade-secret theft, money laundering, witness or investigative obstruction, and criminal copyright infringement. These are the principal sources of the predicate offenses listed in the indictment.
• 18 U.S.C. § 1837 and § 1956(f): The extraterritorial provisions for trade-secret offenses and money laundering. The former focuses on the offender’s status or an act in furtherance committed in the United States; for foreign nationals, the latter requires conduct occurring in part in the United States and a transaction exceeding $10,000.
• 50 U.S.C. § 1705 and 31 C.F.R. Part 560: The criminal provision and administrative regulations associated with the Iran-sanctions allegations. Prosecutors declined to proceed at trial on two separate sanctions counts.

Principal Sources

• DOJ announcement of the 2019 indictment and initial charges
• 2020 third superseding indictment (PDF)
• Meng Wanzhou’s deferred prosecution agreement and Statement of Facts (PDF)
• 18 U.S.C. § 1961 (RICO definitions) ; 18 U.S.C. § 1962 (prohibited activities)
• U.S. Supreme Court: Morrison, 561 U.S. 247 ; RJR Nabisco, 579 U.S. 325
• 18 U.S.C. § 1837 (extraterritoriality of trade-secret offenses) ; 18 U.S.C. § 1956(f) (extraterritorial jurisdiction over money laundering)
• Reuters: Meng Wanzhou’s Statement of Facts may be used at Huawei’s trial
• Reuters: opening statements on September 9, 2026
• Fierce Network: prosecutors narrow the charges before trial

In episode 19, we examined the Hugjiltu case. It occurred during China’s second “Strike Hard” campaign, when the entire criminal justice system was under pressure to punish offenders “severely and swiftly.” Yet only a month before the second campaign began, the National People’s Congress had passed a revised Criminal Procedure Law, which took effect on January 1, 1997.

The second Strike Hard campaign therefore unfolded during an important transition. Campaign-style criminal policy remained in motion even as a new criminal justice system was taking shape. This article looks more closely at the two nationwide campaigns and the development of China’s criminal justice institutions.

Reconstructing the Criminal Justice System of the People’s Republic

In the early years of the People’s Republic of China, there was no comprehensive, unified Criminal Law. Provisions on crimes and punishments were dispersed among a series of stand-alone statutes, including the Regulations on Punishing Counterrevolution, the Interim Regulations on Protecting State Secrets, and the Regulations on Punishing Corruption. An independent sovereign state, however, needed a unified criminal code. Drafting one proved difficult. The Central Legal Affairs Commission began work as early as 1950, but repeated revisions and rewrites produced a thirty-third draft by 1963. The Cultural Revolution then brought the project to a halt.

In 1978, the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh Central Committee called for strengthening the socialist legal system, giving new impetus to the drafting process. In 1979, the Legal Affairs Commission of the NPC Standing Committee produced the thirty-eighth draft of the Criminal Law. Together with a draft Criminal Procedure Law, it was adopted by the Fifth National People’s Congress and took effect on January 1, 1980. China’s criminal justice system had entered a period in which substantive and procedural law were being rebuilt together.

The 1979 Criminal Procedure Law already contained rules intended to prevent wrongful convictions. It prohibited torture to extract confessions and the collection of evidence through threats, inducements, deception, or other unlawful means. It required emphasis on evidence and investigation rather than unquestioning reliance on confessions; a defendant could not be found guilty solely on the basis of a confession unsupported by other evidence. Once a court decided to hold a trial, a copy of the indictment had to be served on the defendant at least seven days beforehand, and the defendant had to be told of the right to appoint defense counsel. A defendant dissatisfied with a first-instance judgment had ten days to appeal.

These provisions show that China did not lack criminal procedure altogether when the first Strike Hard campaign began in 1983. The policy adjustments that followed were made against an already established legal framework. The question, then, is why a Strike Hard campaign was considered necessary when the country already had unified criminal and criminal procedure laws.

Strike Hard: From Policy Campaign to Legal Arrangements

In the early years of reform and opening, population mobility increased while urban life and social administration were changing. Economic restructuring, social transition, and shifts in the distribution of interests contributed to a rise in crime. In a conversation with Ministry of Public Security officials on July 19, 1983, Deng Xiaoping discussed the growth of criminal and other serious cases, public dissatisfaction, and the inadequacy of the existing response. He called for concentrating resources to deal with serious crime lawfully, “severely and swiftly.”

On August 25, 1983, the CPC Central Committee launched a campaign to strike hard against criminal activity. On September 2, the NPC Standing Committee adopted two decisions. The Decision on Severely Punishing Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security addressed the demand for severity. The Decision on Procedures for the Speedy Trial of Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security addressed the demand for speed. Together, the two decisions provided the principal legal arrangements for the first Strike Hard campaign.

Under the severe-punishment decision, offenders convicted of six categories of serious crimes—including hooliganism, intentional injury, and trafficking in persons—could, in specified circumstances, be sentenced above the maximum penalty prescribed by the Criminal Law, up to and including death. This differed from the Criminal Law’s ordinary concept of heavier punishment. Ordinarily, a heavier sentence still had to remain within the statutory range. The decision instead allowed that range to be exceeded, potentially all the way to the death penalty. Through a special decision, the NPC Standing Committee thus displaced the existing statutory sentencing framework and gave direct legislative expression to Strike Hard policy.

Under the speedy-trial decision, offenders who committed murder, rape, robbery, explosions, or other crimes seriously endangering public safety and who warranted the death penalty could, when specified conditions were met, be tried without observing the Criminal Procedure Law’s ordinary service periods, while the period for appeal or procuratorial protest was reduced from ten days to three. Intended to accelerate the handling of these cases, the decision likewise created a special exception to existing procedure.

On September 2, 1983, the NPC Standing Committee also amended the Organic Law of the People’s Courts, allowing the Supreme People’s Court, when necessary, to authorize provincial-level high courts to approve death sentences in certain cases. The Supreme People’s Court issued the corresponding authorization on September 7. Under the 1979 Criminal Procedure Law, death sentences had to be submitted to the Supreme People’s Court for approval. The amendment delegated part of that authority to the high courts, producing a practice in which appeal and death-sentence review could be combined in a single proceeding.

The 1979 Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure Law and the later Strike Hard campaign therefore responded to two needs that existed at the same time. One was to restore a basic criminal legal order; the other was to deal quickly with acute public-security problems. The tension between them soon appeared in the operation of the system.

The Results and Consequences of Strike Hard

The courts handled cases on a very large scale during the first Strike Hard campaign. The Supreme People’s Court’s 1987 work report recorded that, from August 1983 through the end of 1986, courts nationwide concluded more than 1.4 million criminal cases involving over 1.721 million people. Of those sentenced during the period, 39.65 percent received terms of more than five years, life imprisonment, or death; only 0.7 percent were acquitted.

Official assessments at the time reported marked changes in several categories of targeted crime. According to the Supreme People’s Court’s work report, offenders in the “seven targeted categories” declined from 51.86 percent of all criminal defendants tried by the courts in 1984 to 32.79 percent in 1986. Violent crime fell significantly in most parts of the country, and public security was said to have broadly stabilized. These figures formed the principal basis for contemporary official assessments of the campaign’s effectiveness.

The statistics, however, establish only the scale of enforcement and the contemporaneous change in public-security conditions. They cannot by themselves prove that every change was caused by Strike Hard. Equally important was the institutional pressure created by the demand for severe and swift punishment. Case-processing periods were compressed; in some death penalty cases, appeal and death-sentence review were combined; and the space for defense and correction narrowed. Once an investigation went wrong, later proceedings had fewer opportunities to correct it in time.

The first campaign therefore left a dual legacy. On the one hand, it responded in the short term to serious public-security problems. On the other, it exposed the tension between campaign-style governance and ordinary judicial procedure. More than a decade later, the second Strike Hard campaign began almost simultaneously with a major overhaul of criminal procedure, bringing that tension into sharp focus once again.

Old and New Systems in Overlap

In March 1996, the Supreme People’s Court’s work report, reviewing the previous year, stated that public security remained poor in some places and that major violent cases continued to rise. It listed the continuation of Strike Hard and comprehensive public-security governance among the tasks for the next stage. The second Strike Hard campaign began in April, targeting serious crimes including murder, robbery, rape, kidnapping for ransom, major theft, firearms offenses, and organized crime with underworld characteristics.

The second campaign still sought to suppress serious crime over a short period. Compared with the first, however, public explanations of the policy placed greater emphasis on grassroots governance, crime prevention, and other routine work. At least in its stated policy, the campaign addressed not only concentrated punishment but also longer-term prevention and maintenance of public order.

At the same time, both the Criminal Procedure Law and the Criminal Law underwent their first major revisions. On March 17, 1996, one month before the second campaign began, the National People’s Congress adopted a revised Criminal Procedure Law, effective January 1, 1997. On March 14 of the following year, it adopted a revised Criminal Law, effective October 1, 1997.

The two 1983 decisions adopted during the first campaign were repealed in the same period. The speedy-trial decision ceased to have effect on January 1, 1997, while the severe-punishment decision was repealed from October 1, 1997. This chronology shows that legal reform and Strike Hard were not two neatly consecutive phases. For most of 1996, the campaign proceeded under the old procedural law and the 1983 special decisions. After the new laws took effect in 1997, Strike Hard and related special enforcement campaigns continued. Campaign-style policy and institutionalized reform overlapped in practice.

New legislation could not immediately reverse the policy habits of the justice system. Even after the revised law had been adopted, the longstanding emphasis on severe and swift punishment continued to shape individual cases. The Supreme People’s Court’s 1997 work report recorded that courts nationwide concluded 570,000 first-instance criminal cases in 1996, an increase of 14.97 percent over the previous year. A total of 322,400 offenders convicted of crimes seriously endangering public security received punishment; 211,900 of them, or 65.73 percent, received severe sentences.

Nevertheless, a coordinated campaign is temporary. The rules established by legislation continue to shape criminal procedure long after the campaign has ended.

Changes to the Rules of Criminal Procedure

The 1996 revision covered a wide range of matters. Changes directly concerning the prevention of wrongful convictions and the protection of individual rights can be grouped into three areas.

First, it incorporated the central requirement of the presumption of innocence. Article 12 of the revised Criminal Procedure Law provided that no one could be found guilty without a judgment lawfully rendered by a people’s court. Article 162 further required an acquittal when the evidence was insufficient to establish guilt. Together, these provisions supplied a legal foundation for moving away from the habit of entering a conviction when doubts remained. The gravity of a case or the degree of public attention could not substitute for evidence and procedure.

Second, lawyers could enter the criminal process earlier. The 1979 Criminal Procedure Law largely confined legal defense to the trial stage: a defendant was told of the right to appoint counsel only after the court had decided to hold a trial. Under the revised law, a criminal suspect could retain a lawyer during the investigation stage for legal advice, assistance with petitions and complaints, and, when the conditions were met, an application for release on bail pending trial. At the time, however, a lawyer participating during the investigation did not yet have the status later accorded to defense counsel, and the scope of participation was narrower than it is today.

Third, the revision brought custodial measures under closer regulation. By adjusting the conditions governing criminal detention and other compulsory measures, it abolished “custody and investigation,” an administrative coercive measure that had operated outside the Criminal Procedure Law. It also prohibited the “de facto detention” of criminal suspects through repeated summonses or compelled appearances. Custody and investigation had once been used in criminal investigations; it was distinct from the better-known systems of custody and repatriation and reeducation through labor. The revision retained and adjusted criminal detention while bringing the coercive measures needed for criminal prosecution more fully within the framework of criminal procedure.

The centralization of death-sentence approval, complementing these procedural reforms, would come a decade later. On October 31, 2006, the NPC Standing Committee adopted a decision amending the Organic Law of the People’s Courts. From January 1, 2007, authority to approve death sentences was exercised exclusively by the Supreme People’s Court. This was a major reform of China’s death penalty procedure after more than twenty years of delegated review.

Conclusion

Taken together, these institutional changes strengthened the protection of the parties’ rights and reduced, at the level of legal design, the risk of wrongful convictions like Hugjiltu’s. Whether the new rules could achieve their intended effect, however, still depended on their implementation throughout the justice system. The 1979 Criminal Procedure Law already instructed officials not to rely unquestioningly on confessions and required evidence for conviction, yet those requirements could still be weakened by the pressure of the 1983 Strike Hard campaign. The value of procedural safeguards lies in making opportunities to discover, question, and correct errors into rules that every authority handling a case must obey, rather than hoping that every participant will always exercise perfect judgment.

Reform of the criminal justice system did not end there. Over the following two decades, the Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure Law underwent further amendment and development. From Strike Hard to legal reform, the history of China’s criminal justice system offers a clear lesson: procedure must continue to function precisely when society most wants a case resolved without delay.

This article is supplementary reading for episode 19 of Reasoned Talk, “The Hugjiltu Case: Strike Hard Campaigns and the Reversal of a Wrongful Conviction” . The episode traces the case from the crime and original proceedings through retrial and acquittal. This article instead focuses on the two nationwide Strike Hard campaigns and changes to criminal procedure, without repeating the details of the individual case.

Principal Sources

• NPC Standing Committee, Decision on Severely Punishing Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security and Decision on Procedures for the Speedy Trial of Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security (September 2, 1983).
• NPC Standing Committee, Decision on Amending the Organic Law of the People’s Courts of the People’s Republic of China (September 2, 1983).
• National People’s Congress, Criminal Procedure Law of the People’s Republic of China (adopted in 1979), and Decision on Amending the Criminal Procedure Law of the People’s Republic of China (March 17, 1996).
• National People’s Congress, Criminal Law of the People’s Republic of China (revised in 1997), Article 452 and Annex I.
• Gansu Provincial People’s Congress Standing Committee, Resolution on Resolutely Implementing the NPC Standing Committee’s Decision on Severely Punishing Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security (September 24, 1983).
• Deng Xiaoping, “Cracking Down on Criminal Activities,” in Selected Works of Deng Xiaoping, vol. 3, pp. 33–34.
• Zheng Tianxiang, Work Report of the Supreme People’s Court (April 6, 1987).
• Ren Jianxin, Work Report of the Supreme People’s Court (March 11, 1997).
• Supreme People’s Procuratorate, “100 Moments in Procuratorial History: The Second Strike Hard Campaign” (July 8, 2018).
• Supreme People’s Court, “The People’s Courts in Numbers: Sixty Years of Adjudication” (2009), and Decision on Matters Concerning the Unified Exercise of Authority to Approve Death Sentences (Judicial Interpretation [2006] No. 12).
• State Council Information Office, “Progress in China’s Human Rights Cause in 1996” (March 1997).
• People’s Daily, “On the Period for Appeal” (April 26, 1984, p. 4).

This is the transcript of episode 19 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On the evening of April 9, 1996, in Hohhot, Inner Mongolia, a young woman stepped out of a restaurant on Xilin South Road, saying she needed to use the toilet. A long time passed, but she did not return. Two factory workers were also having dinner nearby that evening. One had just turned eighteen. His name was Hugjiltu. After dinner, he and his colleague went their separate ways. As Hugjiltu passed a public toilet in the residential compound of the No. 1 Woolen Mill, he discovered the woman’s body. He immediately went back to his workplace, found the colleague he had eaten with, and ran with him to a nearby police post to report the crime.

No one could have imagined that reporting the crime would draw Hugjiltu into a catastrophe. According to local historical records, investigators concluded within roughly forty-eight hours of the crime that Hugjiltu, one of the men who had reported it, was the killer. He was placed under “custody and investigation” on April 12 and formally arrested on May 10. Just one month later, on June 10, he was executed. Only sixty-two days had passed since the crime.

This became the Hugjiltu case, one of the most widely known cases in Chinese legal history. Why did a young man who came forward to report a crime end up convicted of it? How could a murder case proceed all the way to execution in barely two months? What had gone wrong? This episode examines the case in detail.

Doubts About the Confession and Blood-Type Report

Later investigations established that Hugjiltu had indeed discovered the victim’s body in the women’s toilet on his own before finding his colleague and reporting it together. From the police’s perspective, he had been at the crime scene. With no other leads, someone in that position would naturally become a focus of attention. But suspicion alone was not enough. Identifying him as the killer required further, decisive evidence.

According to material subsequently made public, his conviction rested primarily on two pieces of evidence. The first was his own confession, in which he admitted violently sexually assaulting the victim, identified as Yang, and causing her death. The second was a blood-type report. Type O blood had been found beneath the nail of his left thumb, matching the victim’s blood type. Hugjiltu himself had type A blood.

On the surface, the confession and the laboratory report seemed to corroborate each other. A closer examination, however, revealed doubts. Hugjiltu said in his confession that he had suffocated the victim by covering her mouth with his hand. The autopsy attributed her death to asphyxiation caused by strangulation. The two accounts plainly did not match. And blood typing is not DNA profiling: it cannot identify a particular individual. Many people share a blood type. Finding type O blood under his thumbnail did not establish that it was the victim’s blood.

How, then, could such flawed evidence lead so quickly to a death sentence?

Severe and Swift Punishment in the Strike Hard Era

One point needs explaining. In the month before the crime, the National People’s Congress had passed a revised Criminal Procedure Law. But the new law would not take effect until January 1, 1997. Although already enacted, it was not yet in force. The law applicable to Hugjiltu’s case was therefore the older, 1979 Criminal Procedure Law.

Even that earlier law contained rules that later became familiar principles of criminal procedure. It expressly stated: “In deciding all cases, emphasis shall be placed on evidence and on investigation and study; confessions shall not be readily believed. A defendant cannot be found guilty and punished solely on the basis of a confession without other evidence.” It also expressly prohibited torture to extract confessions and forbade the collection of evidence “by threats, inducements, deception, or other unlawful means.”

Yet, as we have seen, apart from the blood-type and autopsy reports, the local police, procuratorate, and court relied above all on Hugjiltu’s confession. Material later made public also suggested that he may indeed have been tortured during interrogation. That raises the question: if the law already warned against relying on confessions and explicitly prohibited torture, why could the case be closed so quickly? Why did the Criminal Procedure Law fail to provide the protection it was supposed to offer?

To understand this, we need to return to the historical setting.

In 1979, the People’s Republic of China promulgated its first Criminal Law and Criminal Procedure Law. As reform and opening continued, public security subsequently deteriorated. In August 1983, the central leadership decided to launch a campaign to crack down on criminal activity, commonly known as “Strike Hard.” On September 2 that year, the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress adopted the Decision on Procedures for the Speedy Trial of Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security.

Article 1 provided:

To punish swiftly and severely criminals who seriously endanger public security, and to protect the interests of the state and the people, offenders who commit murder, rape, robbery, explosions, or other crimes seriously endangering public safety that warrant the death penalty shall be tried promptly when the principal facts are clear, the evidence is conclusive, and public indignation is extreme. Such trials need not be subject to the relevant service periods prescribed in Article 110 of the Criminal Procedure Law.

Article 2 then provided:

For the offenders listed in the preceding article, the period for appeal by the defendant and for protest by the people’s procuratorate shall be reduced from the ten days prescribed in Article 131 of the Criminal Procedure Law to three days.

Through this decision, the NPC Standing Committee allowed certain serious crimes to be handled under a faster procedure that bypassed provisions of the Criminal Procedure Law. The text contained limiting language—“the principal facts are clear, the evidence is conclusive, and public indignation is extreme”—but in the circumstances of the time, the decision nonetheless loosened some of the procedural constraints on those handling cases at the local level.

Meanwhile, the 1983 amendment to the Organic Law of the People’s Courts allowed the approval of death sentences for certain serious crimes to be delegated from the Supreme People’s Court to provincial-level high courts. Under the amended provisions, the Supreme People’s Court could authorize high courts to approve death sentences in cases involving murder, rape, robbery, explosions, and other crimes seriously endangering public security. This led to a practice in which the appeal and death-sentence approval were combined: in these cases, the high court served both as the appellate court and as the court approving execution.

In 1996, a second nationwide Strike Hard campaign began, running from April 1996 to February 1997. According to the Supreme People’s Court’s 1997 work report to the National People’s Congress, courts nationwide concluded more than 570,000 first-instance criminal cases during 1996, an increase of roughly 15 percent over the previous year. More than 320,000 people were sentenced that year for crimes seriously endangering public security. Of those, approximately 212,000 received prison terms of more than five years, life imprisonment, or death sentences, including death sentences with a reprieve—nearly two-thirds of the total in that category. These figures convey the period’s emphasis on severe and swift punishment.

When the entire justice system encouraged severe and swift punishment, and the law itself left room to accelerate proceedings, events could begin to escape control. Against this background, a serious crime in Hohhot was enough to put the local police, procuratorate, and courts on edge. We cannot know all the circumstances at the time. What we do know is that local investigators had fixed on Hugjiltu, the first person to discover the body. After that, the cold machinery of procedure took over.

On May 17, 1996, the Hohhot Intermediate People’s Court delivered its first-instance judgment. It convicted Hugjiltu of intentional homicide, sentencing him to death and deprivation of political rights for life, and of hooliganism, for which it imposed five years’ imprisonment. The combined sentence was death. The court rejected defense submissions that included his cooperative attitude in admitting guilt.

Hugjiltu appealed, arguing that he had no motive to kill and asking for leniency. On June 5, the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region High People’s Court dismissed his appeal, upheld the original judgment, and approved his death sentence. He was executed on June 10. Only twenty-four days separated the first-instance judgment from execution. The appeal and death-sentence approval were disposed of in the same ruling.

The prescribed procedures had been followed, but they had barely served their intended purpose. The appeal was decided on the written record, and appellate review was combined with approval of the death sentence. In little more than twenty days, a case file containing a retracted confession, contradictions, and a lack of independent physical evidence had produced an irreversible outcome.

A Turning Point, Followed by Years of Petitions

After Hugjiltu’s execution, his parents had to bear not only the loss of their son but also the stigma of being “the murderer’s parents.” According to later interviews in The Beijing News, both worked at Hohhot’s No. 1 Woolen Mill. In a factory community where everyone knew one another, their son’s convictions for homicide and hooliganism weighed heavily on the whole family. His mother, Shang Aiyun, once outgoing, hardworking, and unassuming, became withdrawn. Sometimes she went out alone and wandered aimlessly through the streets. His father, Li Sanren, often shut himself away at home. Even when their older son was dating, someone warned his girlfriend that there had been a murderer in the family.

At first, they took no public action to seek redress. Then, in 2005, came an unexpected turning point. On October 23, police arrested Zhao Zhihong, who had committed a series of rapes, robberies, murders, and other serious crimes in Hohhot, Ulanqab, and elsewhere. After his arrest, he voluntarily confessed to several crimes the police had not solved. Among them was the murder of Yang in the No. 1 Woolen Mill’s residential compound on April 9, 1996—the crime for which Hugjiltu had been sentenced to death.

Local police subsequently took Zhao to the compound to identify the crime scene. Xinhua reported that they brought him there three times to check his account. He described the toilet’s orientation and internal layout, the victim’s height and age, the manner of the assault, and the position of the body. These details closely matched the police investigation and were far more accurate than Hugjiltu’s original confession.

An acutely awkward situation had emerged: two men were now implicated as the perpetrator of the same murder. One had been sentenced to death nine years earlier; the other was voluntarily confessing nine years later. The apparent “reappearance of the real culprit” placed the judicial authorities in a difficult position. When Zhao’s series of crimes went to trial in 2006, the prosecution did not include the April 9 murder linked to Hugjiltu in its charges. Zhao himself raised it in court, saying that this was another of his crimes for which he had not been prosecuted.

His insistence may not have been entirely a matter of conscience. Under the Criminal Law and its judicial interpretations, a defendant who voluntarily discloses other crimes unknown to investigators after being taken into custody may receive a lighter or mitigated sentence. Even if Zhao was merely trying to obtain leniency, he needed the court to recognize this additional crime. His actions nevertheless placed those who had handled Hugjiltu’s case under intense pressure.

Once Hugjiltu’s parents learned of this, they acted immediately. They petitioned local judicial authorities and brought the matter to Xinhua and other media organizations. In March 2006, Inner Mongolia’s Political and Legal Affairs Commission established a group to re-examine the case. Six months later, it concluded that the evidence against Hugjiltu was plainly insufficient and recommended that the court review the case and initiate a retrial.

But the court did not immediately reopen it. Hugjiltu’s parents would wait for more than eight further years. During that time, they repeatedly submitted materials to the authorities and traveled between Hohhot and Beijing. They tried every avenue they could find, approaching judicial bodies, journalists, and lawyers in the hope that someone would bring the case back before a court. Lawyer Wang Zhenyu began assisting the family’s petitions in 2007. Lawyer Miao Li submitted a written recommendation to the Supreme People’s Court, urging it to take over the case promptly or assign a retrial to a court elsewhere, with a hearing to establish what had happened. Xinhua journalist Tang Ji wrote six internal reports on the case, repeatedly bringing it to the attention of the central leadership. Legal scholars, journalists, and other public figures also helped the family continue speaking out. These combined efforts, both within and outside the system, kept the case from fading from public view.

Asked why the court had taken so long to act, the Inner Mongolia High People’s Court later explained that the case was old, some evidence was difficult to investigate further, and a matter involving a human life required caution. That was the court’s official explanation. Other factors may also have impeded correction. The case had been jointly processed by the local police, procuratorate, and courts during the Strike Hard era and had resulted in an execution. A public reversal would have far-reaching implications. Zhao’s own case, moreover, remained unresolved. The claim that he had committed the April 9 murder rested on his confession without substantive physical evidence. Declaring him the real killer on the strength of a confession alone risked repeating the original mistake. These factors may all have increased the resistance to reopening the case.

Returning to the Original Evidence: Retrial and State Compensation

It was not until November 19, 2014, that the Inner Mongolia High People’s Court decided to retry the case. The court explained that, because the original defendant had died, the applicable judicial interpretation of the Criminal Procedure Law required the case to be examined on the written record rather than through a hearing. The petitioners’ lawyers could inspect the case file and submit their views. They applied for access to materials from Zhao Zhihong’s case, but the court refused on the ground that his case had not concluded and the materials were not suitable for disclosure. In other words, the retrial introduced no materials from Zhao’s case. It proceeded on the evidence in Hugjiltu’s original file.

On December 13, 2014, the court delivered its retrial judgment. It held that the facts underlying the original judgment were unclear and the evidence insufficient, principally for three reasons:

1. Hugjiltu’s original confession that he had killed the victim by covering her mouth was inconsistent with the autopsy finding that she had died of asphyxiation caused by manual strangulation.
2. Blood typing established only a class characteristic. It was neither exclusive nor uniquely identifying and could not establish that Hugjiltu had committed the crime.
3. His descriptions of Yang’s height, hairstyle, clothing, and accent were inconsistent with other evidence. His confessions were also unstable, and he had retracted them.

The court accordingly set aside the 1996 first-instance judgment and appellate ruling and acquitted Hugjiltu. On the day the judgment was served, Zhao Jianping, the court’s executive vice president, apologized to his parents on the court’s behalf. Court president Hu Yifeng also sent them 30,000 yuan personally as a gesture of sympathy and told them that they could still apply to the court for state compensation.

On December 25, 2014, Hugjiltu’s parents filed their compensation claim. On December 30, the Inner Mongolia High People’s Court issued its decision, awarding Li Sanren and Shang Aiyun approximately 2.0596 million yuan in compensation for death, funeral expenses, deprivation of personal liberty, and emotional distress. They received the payment on February 3, 2015.

The nature of this compensation matters. State compensation is a legal remedy for harm caused by state organs unlawfully exercising their powers. The amount depends on statutory rules and the circumstances of the individual case. It addresses the responsibility of the state, rather than that of a particular individual.

The award included one million yuan for emotional distress, then a record in state compensation cases. It also prompted a technical objection: under the Supreme People’s Court’s relevant provisions, compensation for emotional distress should in principle not exceed 35 percent of the combined compensation for deprivation of liberty and harm to life and health. This award clearly exceeded that proportion. The Inner Mongolia High People’s Court responded that the punishment imposed had been the most severe of all—death—and had caused exceptionally grave emotional harm to the family. The amount reflected the case’s particular circumstances and was consistent with the spirit of the law. Hugjiltu’s parents also expressed their understanding of the decision.

Accountability and the Outcomes of Separate Proceedings

State compensation was followed by action against those responsible for the case. On January 31, 2016, the relevant authorities in Inner Mongolia announced that twenty-seven people had been held accountable for the wrongful conviction. Media reports identified officials across the police, procuratorate, and courts. Most measures took the form of Party or administrative discipline, including Party warnings, serious Party warnings, administrative demerits, and major demerits. Feng Zhiming, who had led the investigative team as deputy head of the Xincheng branch of the Hohhot Public Security Bureau, was dealt with separately on suspicion of offenses committed in public office. On October 18 that year, the Hulunbuir Intermediate People’s Court convicted him at first instance of accepting bribes, possessing a large amount of property of unexplained origin, illegally possessing firearms and ammunition, and embezzlement. It imposed a combined sentence of eighteen years’ imprisonment and a fine of 1.1 million yuan.

Those offenses were not directly connected to the Hugjiltu case. Many people were therefore dissatisfied with the outcome of the accountability process. Hugjiltu’s older brother, Zhaoligetu, told reporters: “We are not satisfied, and we do not accept it.” His mother, Shang Aiyun, said that accountability had still not gone far enough. Lawyers quoted in public reporting made the same point: the twenty-seven officials had faced Party and administrative responsibility, while the only person criminally punished, Feng Zhiming, had not been imprisoned for the wrongful conviction itself. When journalists asked the regional authorities how the accountability findings had been reached, they received no direct answer.

Now consider Zhao Zhihong’s case. On February 9, 2015, the Hohhot Intermediate People’s Court sentenced him to death for crimes including intentional homicide, rape, robbery, and theft. It also found that he was the perpetrator of Hohhot’s April 9 murder. On April 30, the Inner Mongolia High People’s Court upheld the judgment and submitted the death sentence to the Supreme People’s Court for approval. In July 2019, the Supreme People’s Court approved the sentence. In doing so, however, it changed part of the underlying factual findings. Of the twenty-one criminal incidents attributed to Zhao in the original proceedings, it confirmed seventeen and declined to confirm four. The April 9 murder was among those four.

The reason was primarily evidentiary. In a press briefing, the head of the Supreme People’s Court’s Fifth Criminal Division explained that Zhao had voluntarily confessed to the murder after his arrest, and details in his account broadly matched the police investigation. But his statements were inconsistent over time and contained numerous contradictions with other evidence that were difficult to explain. For example, he repeatedly said that he had ejaculated during the assault, yet no semen had been detected in the victim’s vaginal secretions or found at the scene. He also said he had pulled off her earrings, whereas the autopsy showed no injuries to either ear.

Whatever the final outcome of Zhao’s case, it could not alter Hugjiltu’s acquittal. The retrial judgment had relied on none of the materials from Zhao’s proceedings. Hugjiltu was acquitted because the facts of his own case were unclear and the evidence insufficient, not because the “real culprit” had subsequently appeared. As a matter of law, he should have been acquitted even without Zhao’s voluntary confession.

This is the Criminal Procedure Law’s principle of acquittal where the evidence leaves doubt. To determine guilt, the question is whether the prosecution has supplied sufficient evidence. If it has not, the defendant is legally not guilty. Whether the actual perpetrator is someone else does not materially change the outcome of that case. This places a greater demand on investigators: the evidence supporting a conviction must be reliable and sufficient. That standard does not fall because the public wants to see the “real killer” brought to justice, or because someone voluntarily confesses.

Justice Delayed

Thirty years have passed since the Hugjiltu case began. China’s criminal procedure has developed considerably during that time. Authority to approve death sentences for immediate execution has been brought back under the Supreme People’s Court. Subsequent revisions to the Criminal Procedure Law established rules excluding illegally obtained evidence and, for the first time, expressly prohibited compelling anyone to incriminate themselves.

On that evening of April 9, 1996, eighteen-year-old Hugjiltu tried to help by reporting a crime and instead suffered an irreversible injustice. Our justice system took eighteen full years to correct its mistake. For a shattered family, delayed justice could not restore a loved one’s life. For Chinese legal history, however, the case remains a warning close at hand. What has passed cannot be undone, but what lies ahead can still be changed. Everyone who works in law should remember these cases. They remind us how difficult justice is to achieve.

Timeline

• 1979–1980: The first Criminal Procedure Law is adopted and enters into force. It requires emphasis on evidence rather than unquestioning reliance on confessions and prohibits torture and other unlawful evidence-gathering methods.
• September 1983: The NPC Standing Committee adopts a decision allowing expedited trials for specified serious crimes, reducing the period for defendants’ appeals and procuratorial protests from ten days to three. An amendment to the Organic Law of the People’s Courts allows the Supreme People’s Court to authorize high courts to approve certain death sentences.
• March 17, 1996: Amendments to the Criminal Procedure Law are adopted, taking effect on January 1 the following year. Hugjiltu’s original proceedings remain governed by the 1979 law.
• April 9, 1996: Hugjiltu discovers a murdered woman in a public toilet in the woolen mill’s residential compound and asks a colleague to help report the crime. He is placed under custody and investigation on April 12 and formally arrested on May 10.
• May 17, 1996: The Hohhot Intermediate People’s Court convicts Hugjiltu of intentional homicide and hooliganism and imposes a combined death sentence.
• June 5 and June 10, 1996: The Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region High People’s Court dismisses his appeal, upholds the judgment, and approves the death sentence. He is executed five days later, sixty-two days after the crime.
• October 23, 2005: Zhao Zhihong is arrested and subsequently volunteers a confession to the public-toilet murder. After learning of it, Hugjiltu’s parents petition judicial authorities and approach the media.
• From March 2006: The regional Party Political and Legal Affairs Commission forms a group to re-examine the case. Roughly six months later, it concludes that the original evidence was plainly insufficient and recommends judicial review and a retrial. The case nevertheless remains outside retrial proceedings for years.
• From 2007: Wang Zhenyu helps the family petition for redress. Miao Li later recommends that the Supreme People’s Court take over the case or assign a retrial elsewhere. Xinhua journalist Tang Ji continues writing internal reports to draw attention to the case.
• November 19, 2014: The Inner Mongolia High People’s Court orders a retrial on the written record.
• December 13 and December 15, 2014: The retrial judgment is issued and subsequently served on and read to the family, acquitting Hugjiltu.
• December 30, 2014: The court awards approximately 2.0596 million yuan in state compensation, including one million yuan for emotional distress. The family receives payment on February 3, 2015.
• February and April 2015: Zhao’s trial and appeal both find that he committed the public-toilet murder. The courts impose and uphold a death sentence.
• January 31, 2016: Authorities announce the accountability findings in Hugjiltu’s case: twenty-seven people are held responsible, while Feng Zhiming is handled separately for suspected offenses in public office.
• October 18, 2016: Feng is sentenced at first instance to eighteen years’ imprisonment for four offenses, including accepting bribes. The judgment does not impose criminal liability for Hugjiltu’s wrongful conviction.
• July 2019: The Supreme People’s Court approves Zhao’s death sentence but does not confirm four of the alleged criminal incidents, including the public-toilet murder. Zhao is executed on July 30.

Key People

• Hugjiltu: An eighteen-year-old factory worker at the time of the crime, executed in 1996 and acquitted on retrial in 2014.
• Li Sanren and Shang Aiyun: Hugjiltu’s parents. They persistently sought redress after learning of Zhao’s confession in 2005 and later became the claimants for state compensation.
• Yang: The victim of the public-toilet murder. This episode follows the anonymized identification used in court materials.
• Zhao Zhihong: Arrested for a series of serious crimes, he voluntarily confessed to this murder. The trial and appellate courts found that he had committed it, but the Supreme People’s Court did not confirm that finding during death-sentence review.
• Tang Ji: A journalist with Xinhua’s Inner Mongolia bureau who wrote six internal reports on Hugjiltu’s case.
• Wang Zhenyu and Miao Li: Lawyers involved in seeking redress and reopening the case, through assistance with petitions and written recommendations respectively.
• Feng Zhiming: Head of the original investigative team and then deputy head of the Xincheng branch of the Hohhot Public Security Bureau. He was later convicted in separate proceedings of bribery and other crimes.
• Zhaoligetu: Hugjiltu’s older brother, who publicly expressed dissatisfaction with the accountability findings.

Relevant Decisions and Institutional Background

• Original Hugjiltu proceedings: Hohhot Intermediate People’s Court judgment （1996）呼刑初字第 37 号; Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region High People’s Court ruling （1996）内刑终字第 199 号.
• Hugjiltu retrial: Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region High People’s Court judgment （2014）内刑再终字第 00005 号, setting aside the original judgment and ruling and entering an acquittal.
• State compensation for Hugjiltu’s family: Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region High People’s Court decision （2014）内法赔字第 00001 号, awarding a total of 2,059,621.40 yuan.
• 1979 Criminal Procedure Law: The law governing the original proceedings. It already required emphasis on evidence rather than unquestioning reliance on confessions and prohibited unlawful evidence gathering.
• 1983 Decision on Procedures for the Speedy Trial of Criminals Who Seriously Endanger Public Security: Adjusted service periods and the deadlines for appeals and procuratorial protests in serious cases meeting specified conditions. It is central to understanding the procedural setting of severe and swift punishment.
• Changes to death-sentence approval: From 1983, high courts could approve some death sentences under authorization from the Supreme People’s Court. From 2007, approval of death sentences for immediate execution was exercised exclusively by the Supreme People’s Court.
• The 1996 and subsequent criminal procedure amendments: The 1996 amendments expressly provided for acquittal where evidence was insufficient. Later amendments further established the exclusion of illegally obtained evidence and the prohibition on compelling anyone to incriminate themselves.

Main References

The following materials are drawn from the Chinese manuscript for further reading. English renderings of source titles are provided for convenience.

• Judicial decisions: Retrial criminal judgment （2014）内刑再终字第 00005 号; Supreme People’s Court, “Typical Cases Marking the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Promulgation of the State Compensation Law” (May 15, 2024), including the principal points of the compensation decision in this case.
• Retrial and case history: People’s Court Daily, “Inner Mongolia High Court Acquits Hugjiltu on Retrial” and “Reopening a Long-Dormant Case: How Hugjiltu Was Acquitted on Retrial” (December 16, 2014); the special account “The Reversal of Hugjiltu’s Wrongful Conviction” in the 2015 Inner Mongolia Yearbook; China Law website, “The Hugjiltu Case: A Full Account.”
• Review of Zhao’s death sentence: Supreme People’s Court, “Strict Adherence to the Standard of Proof and Adjudication According to Law: Questions and Answers on the Review of Zhao Zhihong’s Death Sentence” (July 30, 2019).
• Compensation and accountability: People’s Daily, “Compensation for Emotional Distress in the Hugjiltu Case Complies with the Rules” (January 6, 2015); Xinhua, “Inner Mongolia Announces Accountability Findings in the Hugjiltu Case” (January 31, 2016); “Hugjiltu’s Family Refuses to Accept Accountability Findings” (February 1, 2016); “Hugjiltu’s Parents Cannot Accept Accountability Findings” (February 2, 2016).
• Feng Zhiming’s separate conviction: Xinhua, “Hugjiltu’s Mother Responds to Feng Zhiming’s Eighteen-Year Sentence: Accountability Still Falls Short”; The Beijing News, “Hugjiltu Investigative Team Leader Feng Zhiming Sentenced to Eighteen Years at First Instance” (both October 19, 2016).
• Legal and statistical background: The 1979 and 1996 Criminal Procedure Laws and related amendments; the 1983 expedited-trial decision; amendments to the Organic Law of the People’s Courts; the Supreme People’s Court’s 1997 work report. The figures cited for cases and people sentenced in 1996 are annual totals, not simply the results of a single campaign. The figures for severe sentences include death sentences with a reprieve.

Related Episodes

• 15 The Sun Zhigang Case: How Custody and Repatriation Came to an End : Another examination of how institutions correct errors through the experience of an individual. “Custody and investigation” in Hugjiltu’s case was a different measure from “custody and repatriation” in Sun Zhigang’s case.
• 10 You Have the Right to Remain Silent: How Miranda Warnings Changed American Justice : Further discussion of confessions, interrogation procedures, and individual rights.
• 16 Returning to a Country Is Not Coming Home: Japanese War Orphans’ State Compensation Lawsuits : A different historical setting in which to consider what state compensation can address and what it leaves unresolved.

In episode 18 of Reasoned Talk , we discussed Ng Ka Ling and Chan Kam Nga. Those cases concerned the residence entitlements of mainland-born children of Hong Kong permanent residents—the children covered by the third category of permanent residents. In 1999, the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress (NPCSC) issued its first interpretation of the Basic Law in response to the disputes arising from those cases. It became a defining event in Hong Kong’s early post-handover history.

Alongside these children was another group, smaller in number but even more controversial, commonly called shuangfei children: Chinese children born in Hong Kong whose parents are both non-permanent residents of Hong Kong. As more mainland women travelled to Hong Kong to give birth, the term became increasingly prominent in public debate.

The question was this: if both parents were only short-term visitors, could their child become a Hong Kong permanent resident simply by being born there and holding Chinese nationality? Article 24(2)(1) of the Basic Law contained no restriction based on the parents’ status, but the Immigration Ordinance then in force imposed an additional condition. That conflict ultimately came before the courts in the Chong Fung Yuen case.

A Grandfather’s Fight for His Grandson to Stay

In September 1997, less than three months after the handover, a mainland couple arrived in Hong Kong on Two-way Permits. Their son, Chong Fung Yuen, was born there on 29 September. His grandfather, Chong Yiu Shing, had settled in Hong Kong in 1978, but neither parent had the right of abode. They were visiting relatives. Their Two-way Permits—travel permits for mainland residents visiting Hong Kong and Macao—authorised temporary travel, rather than settlement in Hong Kong.

When Chong was born, his parents were still within their permitted period of stay. They subsequently obtained an extension until 24 November 1997. They did not leave by that date, however, and became overstayers. They were later located and repatriated to the mainland. Chong remained in Hong Kong in his grandparents’ care. Although he had been born there and his grandfather was a permanent resident, the Immigration Department did not recognise his right of abode. Under the Immigration Ordinance at the time, birth in Hong Kong alone was insufficient: at least one parent also had to be settled in Hong Kong or have the right of abode.

Chong Yiu Shing therefore brought judicial review proceedings on his grandson’s behalf. With legal aid, Gladys Li SC and Philip Dykes SC represented the boy. They argued that Article 24(2)(1) of the Basic Law expressly included Chinese citizens born in Hong Kong among its permanent residents, and that the Immigration Ordinance could not impose further restrictions on Chong’s right of abode. In their view, its additional parental-status condition contravened the Basic Law.

While the litigation was under way, the Immigration Department extended Chong’s permission to stay. For the time being, he could continue living with his grandparents. Whether he could remain permanently was for the courts to decide.

The Basic Law and the Immigration Ordinance

Let us begin with the legislation.

Chong claimed rights under the first category of permanent residents, set out in Article 24(2)(1) of the Basic Law: Chinese citizens born in Hong Kong before or after the establishment of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. Read according to its ordinary meaning, the provision required two things: birth in Hong Kong and Chinese nationality. Neither party disputed that Chong satisfied both. On his interpretation, he already met every condition the provision specified.

Paragraph 2(a) of Schedule 1 to the Immigration Ordinance, as applicable when Chong was born, imposed an additional requirement on a Chinese citizen born in Hong Kong: at the time of the child’s birth or at any later time, either parent had to be settled in Hong Kong or have the right of abode there. To be “settled” meant being ordinarily resident in Hong Kong without any limit on the period of stay. Visitors travelling on Two-way Permits did not meet that requirement. It was on this basis that the Immigration Department refused to recognise Chong’s right of abode.

Chong’s lawyers argued that the Immigration Ordinance could not narrow the categories of permanent residents established by the Basic Law. The Hong Kong government, by contrast, maintained that the Basic Law had to be read alongside Hong Kong’s immigration controls and the approval procedures for mainland residents travelling to the territory. If children born in Hong Kong to short-term visitors, overstayers, or even illegal entrants could become permanent residents, those controls might be affected. The government argued that restrictions based on the parents’ residence status were therefore implicit in the Basic Law.

The government also relied on another document. On 10 August 1996, the Preparatory Committee for the HKSAR adopted its Opinions on the Implementation of Article 24(2) of the Basic Law. In addressing the first category of permanent residents, the Opinions excluded children born to illegal entrants, overstayers, and people residing temporarily in Hong Kong. Chong’s parents, as temporary visitors, fell within that exclusion. Moreover, the NPCSC’s 1999 interpretation stated that the legislative intent of Article 24(2) was reflected in the Preparatory Committee’s Opinions. That interpretation directly addressed Article 22(4) and Article 24(2)(3). How its broader statement about legislative intent should apply to other categories consequently became an issue in this case.

The dispute thus centred on whether the Immigration Ordinance, the 1996 Opinions, and the relevant language in the 1999 interpretation could apply here and provide a legal basis for adding conditions to the first category of permanent residents.

Was a Reference to the NPCSC Required?

There was also a procedural dispute.

At the final appeal stage, the government argued that the Court should seek an NPCSC interpretation before deciding Chong’s residence status. Article 158 of the Basic Law provides that, when deciding a case requires interpreting provisions concerning affairs for which the Central People’s Government is responsible, or the relationship between the central authorities and the HKSAR, and that interpretation will affect the judgment, the Hong Kong courts must seek an NPCSC interpretation through the Court of Final Appeal before giving a final judgment that cannot be appealed. The government argued that recognising these children’s right of abode would have practical consequences for mainland immigration administration. It therefore concerned central affairs and the relationship between the central authorities and Hong Kong, satisfying the conditions for a reference.

Chong’s side argued that the provision defined Hong Kong permanent residents, a matter within the Region’s autonomy which Hong Kong’s courts could interpret themselves.

The Court of Final Appeal agreed with Chong. Its judgment explained that Article 158(3) required the Court to examine the character of the provision itself. The government’s proposed test instead focused on the practical effects of applying it. On that approach, most or even all provisions of the Basic Law might fall within the category requiring a reference as circumstances changed. The NPCSC’s power to interpret the Basic Law was also distinct from the courts’ duty to seek an interpretation in a particular case; this case concerned the latter. The Court concluded that the provision defining the first category of permanent residents fell within Hong Kong’s autonomy, so the Hong Kong courts had no obligation to seek an NPCSC interpretation in this case.

The government had compiled figures on the number of children concerned. In the 43 months from July 1997 to January 2001, 1,991 children fell within the disputed category—an annual average of about 555. The government acknowledged that these figures did not suggest that losing the case would immediately cause a large influx of mainland residents. On the evidence then before it, the Court considered that the judgment could not be said to pose a significant risk to Hong Kong.

Birthplace and Parental Status: The Court’s Decision

On 20 July 2001, the Court of Final Appeal dismissed the Director of Immigration’s appeal. All five judges agreed: Chong was a permanent resident under Article 24(2)(1) of the Basic Law and had the right of abode in Hong Kong. The Immigration Ordinance’s additional restriction based on his parents’ status contravened that provision. Both the Court of First Instance and the Court of Appeal had already ruled in his favour. By the time the litigation reached its final conclusion, Chong was still not yet four years old.

The Court compared the categories in Article 24. Subparagraph (3) expressly referred to the relationship between children and their parents. Subparagraph (5), dealing with children under 21 born in Hong Kong to residents listed in subparagraph (4), likewise expressly required a particular parental status. Subparagraph (1), by contrast, specified only birthplace and Chinese nationality; it did not require the parents to be settled in Hong Kong. For Chinese children of the kind concerned in this case, claiming status under subparagraph (3) after birth on the mainland and claiming it under subparagraph (1) after birth in Hong Kong involved different conditions. A difference in outcome based on birthplace did not make the provision ambiguous, still less justify adding new conditions. Those differences between the provisions supported Chong’s interpretation.

As for the Preparatory Committee’s 1996 Opinions and the relevant wording in the 1999 interpretation, the Court stressed that, in the absence of a binding interpretation of subparagraph (1), its meaning should be determined by common law methods, taking account of its text, context, and purpose. The Court was not reading words in isolation, nor denying the NPCSC’s interpretive authority. But once those methods established a clear meaning, external materials could not introduce restrictions that the language could not bear.

After the Judgment: Acceptance and Disagreement

For the Chong family, the end of the case meant that the child could finally stay without fear. According to the South China Morning Post the following day, his grandfather had told him the result, though he was unsure how much a boy so young could understand. The family were happy and relieved. They no longer had to worry that the child would be taken away.

On 20 July 2001, Acting Secretary for Security Timothy Tong expressed disappointment with the outcome but pledged to respect the judgment. Secretary for Security Regina Ip subsequently said that the government had no plans to seek an NPCSC interpretation in the case. It would accept and implement the ruling and strengthen cooperation with the mainland to address a possible increase in women travelling to Hong Kong to give birth.

On 21 July, a spokesperson for the NPCSC’s Legislative Affairs Commission expressed concern that the Court’s judgment was not entirely consistent with the NPCSC’s interpretation. A difference of understanding over the 1999 interpretation remained.

Hong Kong Bar Association chairman Alan Leong welcomed the government’s decision to respect the judgment, saying that it helped uphold the rule of law, judicial independence, and “one country, two systems.”

After the ruling, the government began handling comparable cases in accordance with it. Arguments about legislative intent and interpretive authority did not end, but the government did not then seek a new NPCSC interpretation to change the rule.

From Residence Entitlements to the Zero Quota Policy

In January 2002, the government told the Legislative Council that, according to Immigration Department records covering the period from the handover to 19 July 2001, 6,762 people would acquire the right of abode as a result of the Chong judgment. This excluded people whose births had been registered before the handover and who might also benefit. The Department arranged for those concerned to complete procedures confirming or correcting the permanent-resident status recorded in their birth registrations. The government subsequently pursued amendments to the Immigration Ordinance to bring its eligibility provisions into line with the final judgment.

In the years after the case, mainland women travelling to Hong Kong to give birth attracted growing public attention, and shuangfei children became a familiar term. Between 2006 and 2011, nearly 160,000 such children were born in Hong Kong. As they grew up, demand for public services extended from maternity wards to schools. The government needed to provide school places for eligible children, including these children, and arrange cross-border schooling for those living on the mainland. Local families worried about pressure on maternity beds and school places, while the government faced difficult decisions about allocating medical and educational resources. Children who had acquired resident status also needed those services. Rising numbers made policy responses increasingly urgent and repeatedly brought the Chong case back into public debate.

From 2013, the government implemented a “zero quota” policy. Public hospitals stopped accepting maternity bookings from non-local pregnant women, while private hospitals stopped accepting bookings from mainland women in the shuangfei category. Checks at immigration control points accompanied these measures to restrict travel to Hong Kong for childbirth. In March that year, the government made clear that it would continue maintaining the policy through administrative measures. These measures restricted arrangements for giving birth in Hong Kong; they did not themselves change the residence eligibility rule established by the Chong case. Even when a child had the right of abode, the parents did not automatically acquire the same status. Families could still find themselves living on opposite sides of the border.

Ten Years Later

When reporters interviewed Chong again in May 2011, he was a Form One student. Travel to Hong Kong for childbirth had become a matter of heated public debate, and some people online blamed him. He felt helpless in the face of those accusations. From early childhood into secondary school, his name had continued to appear in newspapers and public discussion. The proceedings his grandfather had brought on his behalf secured his right of abode, but also exposed him, years later, to blame he could never have anticipated.

That interview came almost ten years after the final judgment. When Chong’s grandfather first went to court, he wanted only for his grandson to be able to stay in Hong Kong. More than a decade after the proceedings began, the boy had stayed, grown up, and built a school life of his own. For this family, the case’s most immediate significance lay in those ordinary things.

This article is supplementary reading for Episode 18 of Reasoned Talk, “The ‘First Case’ of an NPCSC Interpretation: Who Interprets the Basic Law After Hong Kong’s Handover?” . The original episode examines the 1999 NPCSC interpretation and the relationship between final adjudication and final interpretive authority. This article follows the Chong Fung Yuen case to explore the right of abode of Chinese children born in Hong Kong and the judgment’s consequences for policy and family life.

Timeline

• 1996-08-10: The HKSAR Preparatory Committee adopts its Opinions on the Implementation of Article 24(2), setting out its approach to the permanent-resident categories.
• 1997-09-29: Chong Fung Yuen is born in Hong Kong while his parents are visiting lawfully on Two-way Permits. Neither parent is settled in Hong Kong or has the right of abode.
• 1999-06-26: The NPCSC interprets Articles 22(4) and 24(2)(3). Its statement about the legislative intent of other categories later becomes part of the dispute in Chong.
• 2001-07-20: The Court of Final Appeal unanimously dismisses the Director of Immigration’s appeal and confirms Chong’s right of abode.
• 2002-01-23: The government informs the Legislative Council that 6,762 people in the relevant Immigration Department records will acquire the right of abode following the judgment, and explains the arrangements for confirming status and amending legislation.
• 2013-01-01: The zero quota policy takes effect, restricting childbirth visits by the non-local pregnant women concerned through delivery bookings and immigration controls.
• 2013-03-25: The government confirms that it will continue implementing the zero quota policy through administrative measures.

Related persons

• Chong Fung Yuen (庄丰源) — The child at the centre of the case, a Chinese citizen born in Hong Kong in 1997 and the respondent in the final appeal.
• Chong Yiu Shing (庄曜诚) — Chong’s grandfather, who brought judicial review proceedings as the child’s next friend.
• Andrew Li (李国能) — Chief Justice at the time, delivering the unanimous judgment of the five-member Court.
• Gladys Li and Philip Dykes (李志喜、郭瑞熙) — Senior counsel representing Chong, arguing that local legislation could not add restrictions to the Basic Law’s eligibility criteria.
• Timothy Tong and Regina Ip (汤显明、叶刘淑仪) — Acting Secretary for Security and Secretary for Security respectively, who responded to the judgment and the policy questions that followed.

Institutions and concepts

• Right of abode and permanent residence — Article 24 identifies permanent-resident categories and confers the right of abode. The case concerns the child’s own status; it does not establish an automatic entitlement for the parents.
• Shuangfei children — A public-discussion term for Chinese children born in Hong Kong whose parents are both non-permanent residents. It is not a separately named Basic Law category. Birth statistics must also be read according to their particular definitions of parental status and the mother’s place of origin.
• The first and third categories — Subparagraph (1) concerns Chinese citizens born in Hong Kong; subparagraph (3) concerns Chinese children born outside Hong Kong to residents in categories (1) and (2). Their eligibility criteria are not interchangeable.
• Settlement and temporary stay — Under the provisions at issue, settlement requires ordinary residence without a limit of stay. Visiting on a Two-way Permit does not itself meet that definition.
• Interpretive authority and the duty to refer — The NPCSC’s interpretive power and the Court of Final Appeal’s obligation to seek an interpretation in a particular case are distinct questions.
• Zero quota — An administrative policy governing arrangements for childbirth visits, rather than a direct amendment to Article 24’s permanent-residence criteria.

Related cases

• Director of Immigration v Chong Fung Yuen (FACV 26/2000; (2001) 4 HKCFAR 211; 20 July 2001) — The central case. The Court of Final Appeal held that Article 24(2)(1) contained no parental-status restriction of the kind imposed by the Ordinance, and that no reference under Article 158(3) was required. See the Department of Justice case summary .
• Ng Ka Ling and Chan Kam Nga (Court of Final Appeal, 29 January 1999) — The background cases discussed in episode 18, concerning mainland-born children of Hong Kong permanent residents. Their circumstances differ from Chong’s birth in Hong Kong. See the episode 18 transcript for the background and subsequent NPCSC interpretation.

Key provisions and legal documents

• Basic Law Article 24(2)(1) — The direct basis of Chong’s claim. Comparison with subparagraphs (3) and (5) highlights the different treatment of parental status across the categories.
• Basic Law Articles 22(4) and 158 — Address, respectively, approval for entry by people from other parts of China, and interpretive authority and judicial references.
• Schedule 1, paragraphs 2(a) and 1(5), of the Immigration Ordinance as applicable in the litigation — Set out the additional parental-status condition and the meaning of settlement. The discussion concerns the historical provisions at issue.
• The Preparatory Committee’s 1996 Opinions and the 1999 NPCSC Interpretation — Central documents in the legislative-intent dispute. The 1999 interpretation directly addressed Articles 22(4) and 24(2)(3). See the official Basic Law text and related instruments and the English text of the 1999 interpretation .

This is the transcript of episode 18 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On July 1, 1997, the day Hong Kong returned to Chinese sovereignty, two girls born in mainland China boarded a bus in Shatoujiao, Shenzhen, bound for Hong Kong. They entered without passing through an immigration control point. Three days later, they went to the Immigration Department, identified themselves as the children of a Hong Kong permanent resident, and asked to exercise their right of abode in Hong Kong.

The sisters were Ng Ka Ling and Ng Tan Tan, born in 1987 and 1989 respectively. Their father had arrived in Hong Kong in 1976 and had lived there continuously for more than seven years. Under the Hong Kong Basic Law, which had come into force just days earlier, children in their position should have qualified as permanent residents.

The Immigration Department, however, refused to recognize their right of abode because they had not entered through the prescribed legal procedures and did not hold a mainland-issued Permit for Proceeding to Hong Kong and Macao, commonly known as a “one-way permit.” The department arrested the sisters and subsequently released them on bail.

This was the beginning of the famous Ng Ka Ling case. What started as a question about two children’s status grew into a dispute over the interpretation of the Basic Law and prompted government fears of large-scale immigration. Eventually, at the Hong Kong government’s request, the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress—the NPCSC—intervened with an interpretation intended to settle the controversy.

In this episode, we begin with the Ng sisters and consider how, after the handover, two legal systems met within the constitutional framework of a single country.

The Right of Abode and Approval to Enter: Two Provisions Intersect

To understand the sisters’ position, we need to return to 1984, when China and Britain signed the Sino-British Joint Declaration. In it, the Chinese government set out its basic policies regarding Hong Kong and undertook to incorporate them into the Basic Law. The National People’s Congress subsequently enacted the Basic Law of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region under Article 31 of the Constitution, establishing Hong Kong’s constitutional foundation after the handover.

Section XIV of Annex I to the Joint Declaration provided that Chinese nationals born in Hong Kong, Chinese nationals who had ordinarily resided there continuously for at least seven years, and the children of Chinese nationality born outside Hong Kong to people in those two categories would be Hong Kong permanent residents.

This provision became the basis for Article 24(2) of the Basic Law. That paragraph lists six categories of permanent residents. This episode concerns the first three:

1. Chinese citizens born in Hong Kong;
2. Chinese citizens who have ordinarily resided in Hong Kong continuously for at least seven years;
3. Children of Chinese nationality born outside Hong Kong to residents in the first two categories.

The Ng sisters claimed eligibility under the third category.

It is useful here to explain the “right of abode” in Hong Kong law. Inherited from the British legal tradition, it is not quite the same as what we usually mean by “permanent residence.” A US green card or permanent residence for a foreign national in China is an immigration status obtained through government approval. Hong Kong’s right of abode places greater emphasis on an existing legal entitlement: its holders may enter Hong Kong and remain without limits on the length or conditions of their stay. In other words, if someone is already a Hong Kong permanent resident under Article 24(2), the relevant documents should, in principle, provide evidence of that status rather than create the right itself. This distinction would become central to the dispute.

But the Basic Law contains another relevant provision. Article 22(4) states:

People from other parts of China must apply for approval to enter the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region. The number entering for settlement is to be determined by the competent central government authorities after consulting the Hong Kong government.

Under this provision, mainland residents wishing to settle in Hong Kong must apply to the mainland public security authorities for a one-way permit before they can lawfully enter Hong Kong.

That raises a question. Which provision applies to people like the Ng sisters, who live on the mainland but claim that they are already Hong Kong permanent residents? Should their right of abode under Article 24(2) be recognized first, or must they first comply with the approval requirements in Article 22(4)?

To give these arrangements more detailed effect, Hong Kong enacted two immigration amendment ordinances shortly after the handover. The No. 2 Ordinance, passed on July 1, 1997, required at least one parent to have held the right of abode at the time of a child’s birth for a child of Chinese nationality born outside Hong Kong to qualify under the third category. The No. 3 Ordinance, passed on July 10, introduced a “certificate of entitlement” requirement. This certificate was a document issued by the Immigration Department to establish the holder’s status. Under the rules then in force, a mainland applicant’s certificate had to be affixed to a one-way permit. Hong Kong’s verification of status was thus tied to the mainland’s system of approval for departure.

In the Immigration Department’s view, the Ng sisters could not exercise the right of abode in Hong Kong without both a one-way permit and a certificate of entitlement. The sisters argued that local legislation could not use additional documentary requirements to turn a right already conferred by the Basic Law into a benefit requiring government approval.

Many other mainland applicants faced similar difficulties. Some, like the sisters, had entered without approval. Others had arrived on valid documents and then overstayed. In still other cases, a parent had completed seven years of residence only after the child was born. These applicants brought proceedings against the Immigration Department and eventually appealed to Hong Kong’s Court of Final Appeal.

Ng Ka Ling and Chan Kam Nga: The Court of Final Appeal’s Judgments

On January 29, 1999, the Court of Final Appeal delivered its judgment in Ng Ka Ling. All five judges agreed, and Chief Justice Andrew Li delivered the judgment. The court decided another important case, Chan Kam Nga, that same day. The two cases are often discussed together in accounts of the right-of-abode controversy, but their central issues were not identical.

Let us begin with Ng Ka Ling. The Court of Final Appeal principally addressed two questions.

The first was: Do Hong Kong’s courts have authority to interpret the Basic Law? The judgment held that their judicial authority derived from the Basic Law. Under Article 158, the NPCSC authorizes Hong Kong’s courts to interpret provisions within the limits of the Region’s autonomy when adjudicating cases. Where a case requires the interpretation of provisions concerning affairs administered by the central government or the relationship between the central authorities and the Region, and that interpretation will affect the judgment, the Court of Final Appeal must seek an NPCSC interpretation before delivering a final judgment that cannot be appealed.

This created a procedural difficulty. Article 24 concerned the status of Hong Kong residents, a matter within the Region’s autonomy that Hong Kong’s courts could interpret themselves without a referral. Article 22, however, appeared in the chapter on relations between the central authorities and the Region. If the conditions in Article 158 were met, a referral to the NPCSC would be required. With both provisions involved, should the court seek an interpretation?

The Court of Final Appeal held that the answer depended on which provision the case predominantly required it to interpret. In its view, these cases were fundamentally about the right of abode protected by Article 24, rather than the entry procedures prescribed by Article 22. Hong Kong’s courts could therefore interpret the provisions themselves without referring the matter to the NPCSC. This conclusion later became a major point of contention.

The second question was: What method should Hong Kong’s courts use to interpret Article 24? The judgment adopted a “purposive approach”: understanding a provision’s meaning by reference to its intended legislative purpose. Since Article 24 was principally intended to protect the fundamental rights of Hong Kong residents, it should receive a generous interpretation that afforded those rights the fullest protection.

Following this reasoning, the court held that the right of abode included the right to enter. A person who was already a Hong Kong permanent resident could not also be classified as someone “from other parts of China” under Article 22 and subjected to approval requirements when entering Hong Kong. Local legislation making a one-way permit a prerequisite for exercising the right of abode therefore contravened Article 24.

The court did not, however, deny the Immigration Department’s authority to verify a person’s status. The government could investigate claims to the right of abode and require claimants to obtain certificates of entitlement. It simply could not make a mainland one-way permit a prerequisite for recognizing that right. The court thus distinguished Hong Kong’s checks on entry from the mainland’s administration of departure.

The central logic of Ng Ka Ling was now clear. The Court of Final Appeal considered the department’s insistence that the sisters produce one-way permits inconsistent with the purpose of Article 24(2). As permanent residents in the third category, the sisters’ entry into Hong Kong should not be restricted by those entry formalities.

Now consider Chan Kam Nga. This case raised a different question. What if a parent had not acquired the right of abode when the child was born, but completed seven years of continuous residence afterward? Could the child still qualify as a permanent resident under the third category?

The Court of Final Appeal answered yes. It held that Article 24 did not impose a requirement concerning when a third-category child must have been born. Nor was it consistent with the purpose of maintaining family unity to protect only children born after their parents acquired the necessary status while excluding those born earlier. The additional restriction tied to the time of birth was therefore declared invalid.

To put the distinction simply, Ng Ka Ling addressed whether third-category children needed one-way permits; Chan Kam Nga addressed the significance of when they were born.

The Dispute over Review Powers and the Clarification Judgment

There was, however, a more fundamental issue. Both cases concerned immigration amendment ordinances enacted by the Provisional Legislative Council shortly after the handover. The establishment of that body rested on a series of decisions by the National People’s Congress, its Standing Committee, and the Hong Kong Preparatory Committee operating under them. To rule on whether these ordinances contravened the Basic Law, the court also had to examine the legality of the Provisional Legislative Council itself. This brought it to a more sensitive question: If that council owed its existence to decisions made by the central authorities, could Hong Kong’s courts review acts of the NPC and its Standing Committee?

The Court of Final Appeal held that Hong Kong’s courts could examine whether acts of the NPC and its Standing Committee were consistent with the Basic Law and declare them invalid if they were not. Such an interpretation might make sense within a common-law context. In China, however, the NPC and its Standing Committee occupy the highest level of state power. Viewed through that hierarchy, the idea of a regional court in Hong Kong reviewing decisions of the central authorities was quite extraordinary. This became the spark that ignited the wider controversy.

It is important to recognize that the court ultimately upheld the legality of the Provisional Legislative Council in these cases. It did not actually invalidate any decision of the NPC or its Standing Committee. What provoked the strong reaction was the judgment’s broad declaration of judicial authority.

After the judgment appeared, some mainland participants in the drafting of the Basic Law and legal scholars publicly criticized it, arguing that it effectively placed Hong Kong’s courts above the NPC. Others in Hong Kong supported the judgment as a serious attempt to discharge the courts’ responsibility to uphold the Basic Law. A dispute about a passage in a judgment quickly became a dispute about the entire constitutional order.

On February 24, 1999, the Director of Immigration applied to the Court of Final Appeal for clarification of the passages concerning the NPC and its Standing Committee. Courts do not ordinarily return to explain a judgment once it is final. The Court of Final Appeal itself acknowledged that entertaining this application was exceptional.

On February 26, the court issued a short clarification judgment. It reiterated that Hong Kong’s judicial authority came from the Basic Law and that final authority to interpret that law belonged to the NPCSC. The courts could not question the Standing Committee’s authority to issue interpretations under Article 158, nor could they question the authority of the NPC and its Standing Committee to act in accordance with the Basic Law.

The clarification nevertheless left the original outcome unchanged and did not withdraw the earlier discussion of review powers. For the Hong Kong government, the judgments also posed a more immediate question: how many people would now qualify to come to Hong Kong?

1.67 Million People and the Government’s Four Options

The Court of Final Appeal’s judgments greatly expanded the scope of the third category of permanent residents. If one parent was a Hong Kong permanent resident, a child would automatically become a permanent resident regardless of when the child was born or whether a mainland one-way permit had been obtained. This raised the prospect that immigration previously constrained by entry policy could surge almost overnight.

In April 1999, the Hong Kong government presented survey findings to the Legislative Council. Applying the court’s interpretation, the potential number of eligible third-category permanent residents over the following decade or more could reach 1.67 million. Hong Kong’s entire population at the time was only a little over six million. For a city that had just experienced the Asian financial crisis, the figure was alarming: it suggested pressure on employment, education, housing, health care, and much else.

On May 18, 1999, the government submitted a paper to the Legislative Council entitled Right of Abode: The Solution. It set out four possible responses.

The first was to admit everyone who qualified. But, as discussed above, Hong Kong’s social resources could not bear immigration on that scale.

The second was to wait for the Court of Final Appeal to reverse its position in a future case. There was no guarantee, however, that a suitable case would arise soon, or that the court would change its mind even if one did. More fundamentally, the common-law commitment to stability in precedent meant that merely identifying problems with an earlier judgment was not sufficient reason to overturn it. If the court reversed itself within months under pressure from circumstances, its authority could suffer instead.

The third was to amend Article 24. That presented several difficulties. The power to amend the Basic Law belonged to the NPC, whose next annual session would not take place until the following March. Large numbers of migrants would inevitably seek to enter before then. Article 24 also originated in the annex to the Sino-British Joint Declaration, so amending it could create diplomatic problems. And casually changing a constitutional document that had been in force for less than two years would hardly promote stability and unity in the Region.

The fourth option was to ask the NPCSC to interpret the Basic Law. The Hong Kong government described this as the most decisive, rapid, and comprehensive solution available. Interpretation, it argued, was not amendment: it merely clarified the original legislative intent. The power to interpret the Basic Law already belonged to the Standing Committee.

The paper also acknowledged the risks: an NPCSC interpretation might be viewed by some countries and individuals as undermining the rule of law in Hong Kong, depriving the courts of final adjudication, interfering with judicial independence, and weakening the Region’s autonomy. The government recognized that perception but argued that the Court of Final Appeal had already accepted, in its February 26 clarification, that the Standing Committee’s interpretive authority could not be questioned. Seeking an interpretation was therefore part of the existing constitutional structure.

On May 20, the Hong Kong government formally asked the State Council to seek an interpretation. The State Council subsequently submitted a motion to the NPCSC. On June 26, at its tenth meeting, the Standing Committee of the Ninth NPC adopted an interpretation of Articles 22(4) and 24(2)(3). This was its first interpretation of Hong Kong’s Basic Law.

The First NPCSC Interpretation: Procedure, Eligibility, and Effect

The interpretation began by stating that the Basic Law provisions relied on in the Court of Final Appeal’s judgments concerned affairs administered by the central authorities and relations between the central authorities and the Region. The court should therefore have sought an interpretation under Article 158(3) before judgment, and its own interpretation did not conform to the original legislative intent. After consulting the Basic Law Committee, the Standing Committee issued its interpretation under Article 67(4) of the Constitution and Article 158(1) of the Basic Law.

Its substantive content had three main elements.

First, “people from other parts of China” in Article 22(4) meant people from the provinces, autonomous regions, and municipalities directly under the central government. This included children of Chinese nationality born on the mainland to Hong Kong permanent residents. They had to obtain approval from the relevant authorities in accordance with the law and hold valid documents to enter Hong Kong. Simply claiming to meet the conditions for permanent residence did not exempt them from that process.

Second, the relevant parental qualification for third-category permanent residence had to exist when the child was born. More precisely, at least one parent had to meet the conditions in Article 24(2)(1) or (2) at that time. Acquiring the right of abode after the birth did not enable a parent to pass that eligibility on to the child.

Finally, the interpretation addressed its legal effect. Hong Kong’s courts were to follow it when applying the relevant provisions in the future. But the right of abode already acquired by the parties to the cases decided on January 29, 1999, would remain unaffected. The Ng sisters’ victory was preserved, while the original judgments’ interpretations of the one-way permit requirement and the time-of-birth condition could no longer serve as a basis for others to obtain the same result.

Lau Kong Yung: Applying the NPCSC Interpretation

What, then, of people who had arrived before the interpretation and were already asserting rights on the basis of the Court of Final Appeal’s judgments? That question soon arose in Lau Kong Yung.

Lau Kong Yung and sixteen other mainland residents were children within the Basic Law’s third category of permanent residents. None held a one-way permit or certificate of entitlement, but all had arrived before January 29, 1999, the date of the court’s judgments. Five had at least one parent who was already a permanent resident when they were born. The parents of the other twelve acquired the relevant status only afterward.

In February 1999, the Immigration Department issued removal orders against them. They sought judicial review and eventually appealed to the Court of Final Appeal. While the proceedings were underway, the NPCSC issued its June 26 interpretation.

The court delivered judgment on December 3. It unanimously confirmed that the NPCSC had authority to interpret the Basic Law, that this authority did not depend on a referral by the Court of Final Appeal, and that its interpretations bound Hong Kong’s courts.

As to its effect over time, the court held that the interpretation explained what the relevant provisions had meant since the Basic Law came into force. In other words, those provisions were to be understood in accordance with the NPCSC interpretation from July 1, 1997, onward. The applicants could not be exempted merely because they had arrived before the interpretation was issued.

The judgment did not, however, mean that all seventeen people were immediately removed. The Immigration Department had undertaken to the court that it was reconsidering whether to rescind their removal orders, and that it would refrain from detaining or removing the relevant individuals pending their commencement of further proceedings within the specified period. The court expressly preserved the effect of those undertakings.

The case therefore established the interpretation’s binding force and its temporal effect without ordering the indiscriminate, immediate removal of everyone who failed to qualify for the right of abode. Further litigation followed over who counted as a protected party and what promises the government had previously made.

How Final Adjudication and Final Interpretive Authority Coexist

We can now return to the fundamental question. On one side stands Hong Kong’s Court of “Final” Appeal; on the other, the NPCSC holds “final” interpretive authority. How can the two coexist?

The constitutional provisions do distinguish between final adjudication and interpretation. Final adjudication determines where a case ends. Under the Basic Law, a case ends at Hong Kong’s Court of Final Appeal, with no further appeal to a mainland court. Nor does the NPCSC act as a higher court rehearing the evidence and facts of an individual case. Interpretive authority, by contrast, determines which reading of the Basic Law ultimately binds Hong Kong’s courts when its meaning is disputed.

Hong Kong’s courts also retain authority to interpret provisions within the Region’s autonomy when deciding cases. They do not have to obtain the NPCSC’s views every time. The Court of Final Appeal is required to seek an interpretation only when specified conditions are met.

But distinctions on paper cannot remove every practical tension. A judgment determines the immediate parties’ success or failure, yet it also provides a basis on which others organize their lives and assess their rights. If the executive can initiate a separate interpretive process after losing a case, and that interpretation applies to earlier events, reliance on judicial precedent may be affected even if the original litigants keep their victory. Supporters see this as precisely the allocation of powers established in advance by the Basic Law. Critics worry that the timing and procedures for initiating an interpretation may unsettle judicial decision-making and public expectations. The dispute is therefore about more than whether interpretive authority exists; it is also about how that authority should be exercised.

Later practice showed that this relationship would require continued adjustment. In 2011, in a case involving the state immunity of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Court of Final Appeal decided to seek an interpretation under Article 158(3). The NPCSC issued an interpretation that August, after which Hong Kong’s courts continued the adjudication of the case. This was the first time the Court of Final Appeal had itself sought an NPCSC interpretation.

The 1999 interpretation did not create an interpretive power out of thin air. It brought a mechanism already provided for in the Basic Law into a concrete and acute conflict, making the scope of that power, the ways it could be initiated, and its effect over time unavoidable questions for the future.

Families on Either Side of the Border

Finally, let us return to the Ng sisters. They were among the small number of people specifically protected by the June 26, 1999, interpretation. They could remain lawfully in Hong Kong and live with their father.

Others in similar circumstances did not obtain the outcome they wanted. After the interpretation, their prospects became more complicated. Some met the revised understanding of the eligibility rules but still had to wait for approval. Others no longer qualified under the third category because their parents had acquired the relevant status too late, and had to look for other lawful routes to Hong Kong. Still others continued litigation over existing judgments and government undertakings.

People waiting for the same thing—family reunion—ended up on different paths because of when they were born, how long their parents had lived in Hong Kong, or even when they entered litigation. Countless families between Hong Kong and the mainland have lived this way: one parent goes to Hong Kong first, the children remain on the mainland, and family life is divided by a border crossing. For them, “one country, two systems” is a daily reality. Who has authority to interpret the law may sound like an abstract question of constitutional theory. For a particular family, it can determine when children are finally able to live with their parents.

ShowNotes

Key Timeline

• 1990-04-04: The NPC adopts the Hong Kong Basic Law, to take effect at the handover on July 1, 1997. On the same day, it decides to establish the Basic Law Committee, which is to be consulted before the NPCSC interprets the Basic Law under Article 158(4).
• 1993: The Sino-British Joint Liaison Group reaches an understanding on Article 24(2)(3): at least one parent must have held the right of abode at the time of the child’s birth. This becomes an important piece of background material in the 1999 dispute over original legislative intent.
• 1996-08-10: At its fourth plenary meeting, the Preparatory Committee for the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region adopts its Opinions on the Implementation of Article 24(2) of the Basic Law, retaining the understanding tied to the time of birth. The 1999 interpretation identifies these opinions as an expression of the original legislative intent.
• 1997-07-01 and 07-10: The Provisional Legislative Council passes the Immigration (Amendment) (No. 2) Ordinance and Immigration (Amendment) (No. 3) Ordinance, introducing the parental-status-at-birth requirement and the certificate of entitlement scheme for third-category children. The No. 3 Ordinance takes effect retrospectively from July 1.
• 1997-07-04: Ng Ka Ling and Ng Tan Tan’s claims to the right of abode are rejected by the Immigration Department. They are arrested and released on bail. Other mainland-born applicants are also refused around this time.
• 1999-01-29: The Court of Final Appeal delivers its judgments (FACV 14, 15, and 16/1998), declaring restrictions in local legislation—including the time-of-birth requirement, exclusion of children born outside marriage, one-way permit prerequisite, and retrospective provisions—unconstitutional. The judgment also asserts that Hong Kong’s courts can, in principle, review acts of the NPC and its Standing Committee.
• 1999-02-24 and 02-26: Following the Director of Immigration’s application, the court issues a clarification judgment (FACV 14A/1998), accepting that it cannot question the NPCSC’s authority to interpret under Article 158.
• 1999-04-28: The government reports Census and Statistics Department survey findings to the Legislative Council. Under the judgments’ interpretation, the potentially eligible population over the following decade or more could reach 1.67 million.
• 1999-05-18 to 05-20: The government submits Right of Abode: The Solution, setting out four options. The Legislative Council passes a supporting motion by a substantial majority, and the government formally asks the State Council to seek an interpretation.
• 1999-06-26: The Standing Committee of the Ninth NPC, at its tenth meeting, adopts an interpretation of Articles 22(4) and 24(2)(3)—its first interpretation of the Basic Law.
• 1999-07-16: The Legislative Council passes a resolution amending Schedule 1 to the Immigration Ordinance. The resumption of certificate of entitlement application procedures is subsequently gazetted.
• 1999-12-03: In Lau Kong Yung and the related appeal involving seventeen applicants (FACV 10 and 11/1999), the Court of Final Appeal holds that the interpretation is constitutional, binding on Hong Kong’s courts, and effective from July 1, 1997, and upholds the removal orders.
• 2011-08-26: Following a referral by the Court of Final Appeal in the Congo case, the NPCSC interprets Articles 13(1) and 19. This is the first use of the judicial referral procedure under Article 158(3).

Key People

• Ng Ka Ling and Ng Tan Tan — The principal litigants: sisters born on the mainland in 1987 and 1989, whose father settled in Hong Kong in 1976. They arrived on July 1, 1997, and their claims to the right of abode were refused. The 1999 interpretation expressly preserved the right of abode they had acquired. They belonged to the category of parties to the relevant judgments; that protection did not automatically extend to everyone who had claimed the right of abode.
• Chan Kam Nga — A litigant in the case bearing that name, decided by the Court of Final Appeal on January 29, 1999, alongside Ng Ka Ling. The central question was whether a child could qualify under the third category of permanent residents when a parent acquired the right of abode only after the child’s birth. The court answered yes, but the subsequent NPCSC interpretation required the relevant parental status to exist at birth.
• Lau Kong Yung — One of seventeen mainland applicants in the case bearing that name. All had arrived before the January 29, 1999, judgments without one-way permits or certificates of entitlement and later challenged their removal orders. On December 3, 1999, their case led the Court of Final Appeal to confirm the NPCSC interpretation’s binding force and temporal effect, while preserving the Immigration Department’s earlier undertakings to the court.
• Andrew Li — Hong Kong’s first Chief Justice of the Court of Final Appeal after the handover. He wrote both the January 29 judgment and the February 26 clarification, with all five judges agreeing.
• Tung Chee-hwa — The Chief Executive at the time. In May 1999, he decided to seek assistance from the central authorities and submitted a report under Articles 43 and 48(2), leading the State Council to request an interpretation.
• Regina Ip — The Secretary for Security at the time. On July 16, 1999, she moved the amendment to Schedule 1 to the Immigration Ordinance in the Legislative Council and explained the Immigration Department’s approach following the interpretation.

Key Concepts

• Right of abode — A permanent resident’s right to enter Hong Kong, remain without conditions of stay, and be free from removal. The Court of Final Appeal described it as a core right of permanent residents, inherently including entry.
• The third category of permanent residents — Article 24(2)(3): children of Chinese nationality born outside Hong Kong to residents in categories (1) and (2). The central disputes concerned whether the parent had to hold the necessary status when the child was born and whether exercising the right of abode depended on mainland approval.
• One-way permit and certificate of entitlement — A one-way permit is issued by the mainland public security authorities to authorize departure for settlement in Hong Kong. A certificate of entitlement is issued by Hong Kong’s Director of Immigration to verify permanent resident status acquired by descent and must be affixed to a one-way permit or another relevant travel document.
• Original legislative intent — The interpretive basis advanced by the NPCSC and the Hong Kong government: a provision’s meaning was established when it was enacted, as reflected in its drafting background—the Joint Declaration, Joint Liaison Group understanding, and Preparatory Committee opinions. Interpretation merely clarifies that original meaning. In 1999, this approach came into direct conflict with the common-law tradition of textual interpretation.
• Final adjudication and final interpretive authority — Article 158(1) vests the power to interpret the Basic Law as a whole in the NPCSC. Paragraphs (2) and (3) authorize Hong Kong’s courts to interpret it in adjudication and require referrals in specified circumstances. The division established after these cases was that adjudication ends in Hong Kong, while final interpretation of the Basic Law rests with the NPCSC.
• Parties to the relevant proceedings — Those whose acquired rights were preserved by the 1999 interpretation: the parties to the January 29 judgments. The boundaries of this category generated further litigation.

Key Cases

• Ng Ka Ling and Ng Tan Tan (represented by their father as next friend) v Director of Immigration (Court of Final Appeal, FACV 14/1998, heard together with FACV 15 and 16/1998, January 29, 1999) — The Court of Final Appeal interprets the Basic Law for the first time, declares relevant restrictions in the local immigration amendment legislation unconstitutional, and explains Hong Kong’s judicial power to review local legislation for consistency with the Basic Law. Note: the two applicants’ Chinese names appear in the official Chinese-language case compilation. The Chinese names of the other applicants were not found in the official Chinese materials checked when preparing the original text and were therefore omitted from its narrative.
• Ng Ka Ling and Others v Director of Immigration (No. 2) (Court of Final Appeal, FACV 14A/1998, February 26, 1999) — An exceptional clarification after judgment, accepting that the court cannot question the NPCSC’s authority to interpret under Article 158. It leaves the substantive outcome of the January 29 judgment unchanged.
• Lau Kong Yung and Others v Director of Immigration (Court of Final Appeal, FACV 10 and 11/1999, December 3, 1999) — The court first confirms that the June 26 interpretation is constitutional, binds Hong Kong’s courts, and applies from the Basic Law’s commencement. Removal orders against seventeen applicants who arrived before the January 29 judgments—five of whom had a parent with permanent resident status at birth—are upheld because they lacked one-way permits and certificates of entitlement.

Key Provisions and Legal Documents

• Article 24(2)(3) of the Hong Kong Basic Law (adopted April 4, 1990; effective July 1, 1997) — Defines the third category of permanent residents, at the center of the litigation and interpretation.
• Article 22(4) of the Hong Kong Basic Law — Requires people from other parts of China to obtain approval to enter Hong Kong, with settlement numbers determined by the competent central authorities after consulting the Hong Kong government. The 1999 interpretation confirms that this includes mainland-born children of permanent residents.
• Article 158 of the Hong Kong Basic Law — Allocates interpretive authority: paragraph (1) vests it in the NPCSC; paragraph (2) authorizes the courts to interpret provisions within the Region’s autonomy; paragraph (3) requires referrals by the Court of Final Appeal for provisions concerning central affairs or central–regional relations in the specified circumstances, while preserving judgments previously rendered; paragraph (4) requires prior consultation with the Basic Law Committee.
• Article 67(4) of the Constitution — Gives the NPCSC authority to interpret laws. Together with Article 158(1), it provides the legal basis for the 1999 interpretation.
• The NPCSC Interpretation of Articles 22(4) and 24(2)(3) of the Basic Law (June 26, 1999) — The first NPCSC interpretation: confirms that mainland-born children must obtain approval to enter and limits third-category eligibility to children with at least one parent meeting category (1) or (2) at birth. It preserves the right of abode acquired by the parties to the January 29 judgments.
• Immigration (Amendment) (No. 2) Ordinance and Immigration (Amendment) (No. 3) Ordinance (Provisional Legislative Council, 1997) — Tie third-category eligibility to parental status at birth and establish the certificate of entitlement scheme. Several provisions are declared unconstitutional on January 29, 1999. The system is restored following the Legislative Council’s July 1999 resolution amending Schedule 1 to the Immigration Ordinance.
• Opinions on the Implementation of Article 24(2) of the Basic Law (fourth plenary meeting of the Preparatory Committee for the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region, August 10, 1996) — The text identified in the 1999 interpretation as embodying the original legislative intent.

Related Episodes

• 13 China’s “First Constitutional Case”: Qi Yuling’s Stolen Right to Education — Continues the discussion of how constitutional rights can be realized through adjudication. Qi Yuling concerned whether mainland courts could apply the Constitution directly. This episode asks how Hong Kong’s constitutional review powers coexist with the NPCSC’s final interpretive authority. The two paths share a structural difficulty.
• 08 A Supreme Court Caught in the Middle: The Birth of Judicial Review in America — An institutional comparison: in Marbury, the US Supreme Court asserted the power of constitutional review through an individual case. Hong Kong’s Court of Final Appeal derives its review authority from express authorization in the Basic Law, while final authority to interpret that law belongs separately to the NPCSC.

On 20 September 1996, at Hong Kong’s High Court, George Tan, former chairman of the Carrian Group, pleaded guilty to two counts of conspiracy to defraud.

The name George Tan may sound unfamiliar today. In the 1980s, however, he was famous. The Carrian Group he founded was a multinational finance and property conglomerate with three listed companies and more than 200 subsidiaries at its peak.

Behind that glamorous image was a vast fraud. According to the Independent Commission Against Corruption (ICAC), between 1980 and 1983 Tan used deception to obtain US$238 million in loans from Bumiputra Malaysia Finance (BMF).

He was sentenced to three years in prison one week after his plea. By then, nearly eleven years had passed since his arrest and fourteen years since the collapse of his business empire. Why did the investigation take so long? How could an agency famous for dismantling corruption in the police force move so slowly? The Carrian case lets us examine how a corruption case moves from investigation to trial, and why even a powerful anti-corruption agency can suffer a major defeat.

The ICAC’s three functions

Under the 1974 Independent Commission Against Corruption Ordinance, the ICAC has three functions: investigation, prevention and community education. They are carried out by three departments.

1. Operations Department investigates cases. Its teams cover the public sector and the private sector. Most of the ICAC’s roughly 1,400 staff work here.
2. Corruption Prevention Department reviews administrative procedures and recommends changes where they may invite corruption. In 2025 it completed 67 review reports and provided more than 1,500 consultations.
3. Community Relations Department handles public education, media campaigns and community work. It also operates reporting channels. The ICAC’s promise to informants is simple: their identities and reports are kept in confidential files and disclosed only to authorised people who need to know.

A complaint is screened first. Complaints unrelated to corruption are also answered within two working days; where corruption is involved, an officer normally contacts the informant within 48 hours. Once a case enters a formal investigation, external oversight begins.

The ICAC’s investigative powers

The ICAC’s powers include arrest without a warrant when the Commissioner authorises it and there are reasonable grounds for suspicion; detention for up to 48 hours; searches under a warrant, with a narrow emergency exception; applications to restrict a suspect’s travel; written demands for bank and company records; court orders requiring a suspect and spouse to declare assets, expenditure and liabilities; and restraint orders freezing property.

These powers are extensive, but the ICAC cannot decide anyone’s fate. After an investigation it sends the evidence to the Department of Justice, which decides whether to prosecute. Article 63 of the Basic Law places criminal prosecutions under the Secretary for Justice. The separation of investigation and prosecution is meant to prevent a prosecution decision from resting solely on the ICAC’s own judgment.

The Carrian case, which lasted seventeen years, was the ultimate test of that design.

Carrian: from miracle to collapse

Carrian was the longest case in ICAC history, running from 1985 to 2001. Tan arrived in Hong Kong from Singapore in the early 1970s and founded the group in 1977. Within a few years it became one of the city’s most spectacular business stories.

In 1979 Carrian bought 52% of the listed company American International Assurance at HK$6 a share when the market price was about HK$1.50, then used it to list the group. In 1980 it bought the Connaught Centre in Central for HK$998 million and announced a resale for HK$1.68 billion, apparently making almost HK$700 million. The transaction was later found never to have been completed. The paper profit was fiction, but the share price reached HK$17.90 on 5 November 1980.

The money behind the story came largely from BMF, a Hong Kong subsidiary of Malaysia’s state-owned Bank Bumiputra. BMF eventually lent companies controlled by Tan US$292 million for the Connaught Centre acquisition even though one borrower had only HK$2 in registered capital.

In 1982 the property market turned after negotiations over Hong Kong’s future began. Carrian cancelled its cash interim dividend, announced new share issues and then revealed that it could not meet its obligations. Trading was suspended in January 1983 and the group was wound up in October. Its debts reached HK$10.6 billion, including about HK$4.6 billion owed to BMF.

The collapse was followed by a murder. BMF auditor Jalil Ibrahim disappeared after travelling to Hong Kong to examine the books and was found dead in a Tai Po banana plantation on 20 July 1983. Malaysian businessman Mak Fook Hing was convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. Tan was never charged with that killing; legally, the murder and the fraud remained separate cases.

International cooperation and transfer of jurisdiction

The police initially investigated the Connaught Centre fraud. The ICAC became involved only after a Malaysian inquiry found that BMF had lent about US$800 million to Carrian companies between 1979 and 1983, much of it without adequate security, and that senior BMF officers might have taken bribes. Because the suspected bribery occurred in Hong Kong, the Malaysian committee reported it to the ICAC through the Department of Justice in April 1985.

On 23 May 1985 the ICAC created task force TF3, initially with twelve investigators and eventually more than forty. Evidence stretched across eight countries: accounts in Malaysia, dollar transfers in the United States, bank accounts in Switzerland, and suspects in Britain and France. The Department of Justice assigned six prosecutors, the government hired international accountants and lawyers, and a former BMF general manager became a protected witness. By the end there were four million pages of documents, 450 witnesses and more than 100,000 investigation hours.

On 7 December 1985 British police arrested former BMF chairman Lorrain Osman in London. The ICAC arrested Tan and two former Carrian directors in Hong Kong. Tan faced 43 counts of conspiracy to defraud and unlawful advantages involving more than HK$5 billion, and was granted bail of HK$50 million in cash plus a HK$2 million surety—the highest in Hong Kong at the time.

The trial of the century

The ICAC transferred the Connaught Centre fraud to the Department of Justice for prosecution against six defendants. The trial became known as the “trial of the century”: the prosecution took nineteen months to present its evidence, called 104 witnesses and produced more than 25,000 pages of transcript.

On the 281st sitting day, 15 September 1987, Mr Justice Blair-Kerr ruled that the charges were duplicative and the evidence insufficient. The six defendants were acquitted without being called to give a defence. The government had spent HK$210 million on litigation.

This was a profound setback, but it also exposed the boundary of the ICAC’s power. Once a case reaches court, the court may disregard years of investigative work. Judicial independence is precisely what limits an agency with extraordinary investigative powers.

Ten years of extradition and eventual convictions

The ICAC opened a new investigation into the BMF loan fraud. Osman made ten habeas corpus applications in Britain and spent almost seven years in prison before being extradited in December 1992. He pleaded guilty in 1993 to allowing a US$292 million loan without adequate security and received one year, set off against his British detention.

Senior executive Saminathan was arrested in France but released because French law had no equivalent offence. After a second arrest and years of litigation, he was extradited in February 1994 and sentenced to five years after pleading guilty to two counts of conspiracy to defraud. Former BMF director Hashim voluntarily returned from Britain in 1987; his sentence was increased from four and a half to ten years on appeal. Other bankers were also convicted.

Tan’s own prosecution was finally resolved in 1996. His application to stay the proceedings was rejected, his bail was revoked, and he pleaded guilty to two counts of conspiracy to defraud on 20 September. He received three years and a five-year disqualification from acting as a company director. The ICAC closed the Carrian case in 2001 after seventeen years.

Three safeguards in the ICAC system

The case tested three safeguards. First, the ICAC showed that it could investigate across eight countries, withstand a decade of extradition litigation and turn four million pages into evidence. Second, prosecution remained independent: the ICAC investigated, while the Department of Justice decided whether to charge. Third, the final decision belonged to judges and juries. An agency that investigated, prosecuted and judged would become a monster of power. It might secure more convictions, but it would not retain public trust.

Oversight of the ICAC

After the 1977 police–ICAC conflict and the government’s partial amnesty, an oversight system for the ICAC was established on 1 December 1977.

The system has three layers. Socially representative advisory committees review how corruption reports are handled, corruption-prevention work and community education. The ICAC’s internal L Group investigates misconduct and corruption allegations against ICAC officers, while complaints involving ICAC staff must be reported to the Department of Justice. Finally, the independent Complaints Committee for ICAC Matters reviews non-criminal complaints; its secretariat sits in the Administration Wing rather than the ICAC, and it reports publicly each year.

In 2025 the committee received 17 complaints containing 41 allegations, reviewed 40 and found five substantiated, involving three officers. The point is not the number of disciplinary findings. It is that investigators themselves are watched. The Commissioner answers only to the Chief Executive, but the ICAC’s decisions are scrutinised by prosecutors, judges, juries, advisory committees and the complaints committee.

What the Carrian case teaches

Tan’s case took so long because investigation is only the first stage. Evidence must pass the Department of Justice, the trial court and the appeals process. Each safeguard slows the agency down. In Carrian, the safeguards produced a seventeen-year case, an acquittal in the trial of the century and years of extradition litigation. If efficiency is the only goal, they look like obstacles. If the goal is legitimate judicial authority and lasting public integrity, they are the protections that make power tolerable.

The highest achievement of an investigative agency is not that nobody questions it, but that it can survive losing. Hong Kong lost a trial before the world, yet its anti-corruption system did not collapse because people could distinguish a lost case from a failed institution. The institution endured because it relied on procedures rather than the infallibility of one person or one agency.

This article is supplementary reading for Episode 17 of Reasoned Talk, “From Godber’s Escape to the Police–ICAC Conflict: The Birth of Hong Kong’s ICAC” . The earlier episode explains how the ICAC was created in the 1970s; this article uses Carrian to examine how the machine works and how it is restrained.

Carrian timeline

• 1979–1980: Carrian acquired a listed shell, bought the Connaught Centre for HK$998 million and announced a HK$1.68 billion resale that never actually occurred; the share price peaked at HK$17.90.
• 1982–1983: The property market turned, Carrian defaulted, trading was suspended and the group was wound up. Auditor Jalil Ibrahim was murdered.
• 1985: Malaysia’s Nordin committee reported the suspected bribery to the ICAC; task force TF3 was formed; Tan was arrested and granted record bail.
• 1986–1987: The trial of the century opened and ended on the 281st sitting day with six acquittals.
• 1988–1994: Bankers were convicted and Osman and Saminathan were extradited after prolonged litigation.
• 1996: Tan pleaded guilty and was sentenced to three years.
• 2001: The ICAC closed the case after seventeen years.

Key people and outcomes

• George Tan: Carrian founder; acquitted in the Connaught Centre trial, then sentenced to three years in 1996 after pleading guilty to fraud involving BMF loans.
• Lorrain Osman: Former BMF chairman; extradited after almost seven years in Britain and sentenced to one year.
• Hashim: Former BMF director; sentence increased to ten years on appeal.
• Saminathan: Former acting BMF director; extradited in 1994 and sentenced to five years.
• Lau Lian Tong: Former Gotdori chief executive; convicted in 2000 for accepting HK$4.5 million and sentenced to five years, before the conviction was unanimously quashed in 2002.
• Jalil Ibrahim: BMF auditor; murdered while examining the Hong Kong books. Mak Fook Hing was convicted and imprisoned for life.

Institutions and concepts

• Operations Department: Investigates corruption in government, public bodies, elections and private companies.
• Corruption Prevention Department: Finds procedural weaknesses and recommends reforms.
• Community Relations Department: Education, publicity and reporting channels.
• Advisory committees: Review corruption reports, prevention work and public education.
• Complaints Committee for ICAC Matters: Independent review of non-criminal complaints against the ICAC and its officers.
• L Group: Internal investigation and monitoring of ICAC staff.
• Separation of prosecution: The ICAC has no power to prosecute. Article 63 of the Basic Law places criminal prosecutions under the Secretary for Justice, and section 31 of the Prevention of Bribery Ordinance requires the Secretary’s consent for relevant prosecutions.

This is the transcript of episode 17 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On the morning of October 28, 1977, more than two thousand Hong Kong police officers and members of their families gathered at Police Headquarters in Wan Chai to demonstrate. They submitted a petition signed by over 11,000 officers, demanding that the Commissioner of Police press the government to halt the Independent Commission Against Corruption’s investigations into corruption within the force.

By noon, more than one hundred officers had arrived at the headquarters of the ICAC Operations Department in Hutchison House, Admiralty. They smashed the glass doors of the ICAC offices, forced their way inside, and assaulted ICAC staff. Someone called the police, but the officers involved had dispersed before investigators arrived. Five ICAC officers were injured and left bleeding, while the incident sent shock waves and fear through Hong Kong society.

This was the famous “Police–ICAC Confrontation” in Hong Kong history. The police and the ICAC were both government law-enforcement bodies that ordinarily should have cooperated with and checked each other. A direct clash as intense as the one in 1977 was exceedingly rare.

What caused this confrontation? What institutional problems lay behind it? In this episode, we will take a close look at those questions.

“Tea Money” and the Failure of Internal Police Anti-Corruption

To understand the real cause of the Police–ICAC Confrontation, we need to go back more than a decade, to Hong Kong in the 1960s. Hong Kong was then a British colony governed by the colonial administration. For various historical reasons, large numbers of people from mainland China had moved into the city, placing public resources under acute strain. In this setting, public officials who controlled scarce resources began extracting rents on a broad scale, and serious corruption took hold throughout the government.

At the time, ordinary people could be asked for bribes when applying for public housing, seeking a place at school, going to a hospital, or even calling the fire brigade. These payments were known as “tea money.” Ambulance workers might demand tea money before taking a patient to hospital; firefighters might demand it before turning on their hoses. For ordinary Hong Kong residents, these public services were already funded by taxes. Now they had to pay extra simply to receive them. Over time, public resentment inevitably mounted.

Among government bodies, corruption was most severe in the Hong Kong Police Force. On the one hand, the force maintained public order for the colonial government and had been granted the title “Royal” by the British monarch. On the other, its powers were often used to exploit residents, and some officers even protected vice, gambling, and drug operations. Certain police officials amassed enormous fortunes through corruption and lived in extreme luxury. Much of the disorder portrayed in Hong Kong films was inspired by this period.

The colonial government had in fact enacted the Prevention of Corruption Ordinance as early as 1948. Yet the body responsible for enforcing it was the police force’s own Anti-Corruption Office. Corruption within the force was so entrenched that a sufficiently thorough investigation of one officer might implicate the investigator as well. Internal police anti-corruption efforts therefore had very limited effect. For various reasons, many officers accommodated themselves to the corrupt system and joined in giving and taking bribes.

This was a principal reason corruption became so serious within the police. When it came to corruption, the force was both player and referee. There was no independent outside body to supervise it.

Godber’s Escape and the Collapse of Institutional Trust

In 1971, seeking to intensify its fight against corruption, the Hong Kong government secured passage of the Prevention of Bribery Ordinance in the Legislative Council. That same year, the police Anti-Corruption Office received a tip from Canada about a suspicious remittance of C$12,000 from Hong Kong. The recipient was Peter Godber, then a chief superintendent of police.

Godber was British. He had served in the Royal Navy during the Second World War and came to Hong Kong in 1952 as a probationary police officer. He performed well, received repeated commendations, and rose through the ranks to chief superintendent. Over many years, he used his position to accumulate a large fortune through corruption, yet he kept a low profile and cultivated an outwardly frugal image. He opened a Canadian bank account under an assumed name and even invented a diplomatic identity for himself.

After receiving the tip, the Anti-Corruption Office began investigating Godber under the codename “Havana.” The inquiry stalled for lack of further leads. As noted above, however, an investigation conducted within the police could not be kept entirely secret from a chief superintendent. Godber soon learned that he was under investigation. In January 1972, he applied for early retirement on the ground that he and his wife were in poor health. Remarkably, the police approved the application.

In April 1973, less than three months before Godber was due to retire, the Commissioner of Police received another tip alleging that Godber was transferring large sums overseas. With the assistance of prosecutors from the Legal Department, the Anti-Corruption Office spent days making inquiries at all 480 licensed banks in Hong Kong. It eventually found that Godber had sent about HK$650,000 abroad over the preceding five years—nearly the whole of the salary he had earned during more than two decades in the force.

Although the police did not yet have enough evidence to prove that Godber had accepted bribes, his retirement and departure from Hong Kong were drawing near. The police and the Legal Department decided to act first. In June 1973, the Attorney General signed warrants to search Godber’s home and car. The searches uncovered a large collection of documents detailing bribes he had received from criminal organizations. According to those records, he held unexplained deposits in several countries worth as much as HK$4.37 million—six times his total earnings from the police.

At the same time, the police invoked section 10 of the Prevention of Bribery Ordinance for the first time, requiring Godber to account within seven days for the source of his assets and explain why they were “disproportionate to his official emoluments.” Before the ordinance was enacted, convicting an official with vast unexplained wealth required the prosecution not only to prove that the person possessed assets disproportionate to their income, but also to connect those assets to specific acts of corruption. The evidential burden lay entirely with the prosecution. Section 10 changed that position. Once the prosecution established the necessary foundational facts, the accused official had to provide a satisfactory explanation for the lawful source of the assets or could still be convicted. In this way, part of the burden that had previously fallen on the prosecution shifted to the defense, strengthening the law against corruption.

The police planned to arrest Godber formally when the seven-day period expired and alerted airport control points to watch for him. Yet there was still a gap between completing the investigation and taking action. On June 8, 1973, Godber used an airport security pass issued to police officers to flee through Singapore to Britain.

All Hong Kong now witnessed the irony: a chief superintendent under investigation had used privileges available inside the police to escape the city. Students and residents began gathering in Victoria Park with a single slogan: “Fight Corruption, Arrest Godber.” In the public’s eyes, years of relying on the police to investigate themselves had produced nothing. Even if the government enacted a new law, the old institution was still responsible for enforcing it. Nothing fundamental had changed.

Godber’s escape brought this longstanding institutional failure to the center of public attention. The government finally realized that as long as the anti-corruption body remained inside the police force, the public would no longer believe that it was serious about fighting corruption.

The Creation of the ICAC and Godber’s Return

Under mounting public pressure, Governor Murray MacLehose formally proposed to the Legislative Council in October 1973 that Hong Kong establish an independent anti-corruption body. It would report directly to the governor and specialize in investigating corruption. In February 1974, the Legislative Council enacted the Independent Commission Against Corruption Ordinance. The ordinance took effect two days later, formally establishing the ICAC, and the work and files of the police Anti-Corruption Office began to be transferred. The Commissioner of the ICAC was appointed by and answerable to the governor. The Commission had independent investigative powers but no power to prosecute; decisions on prosecution remained with the Attorney General, acting on the evidence and the law.

Under the ordinance then in force, ICAC investigators could arrest a suspect without a warrant when they had reasonable grounds for suspicion, but could not detain the suspect at the ICAC for longer than forty-eight hours. Together with powers under the Prevention of Bribery Ordinance and other laws, investigators could conduct searches, seize evidence, and obtain government records.

Once the ICAC was established, its first priority was to bring Godber back to face justice and demonstrate the government’s resolve to fight corruption. Britain, however, had no offense equivalent to Hong Kong’s law on assets disproportionate to official emoluments, and at first the Hong Kong government could not secure Godber’s extradition. The British government then indicated that it could cooperate if a witness was prepared to testify that Godber had taken bribes in Hong Kong.

Before long, Ernest Hunt, a former expatriate police superintendent then serving a prison sentence for corruption, told the ICAC that he was willing to provide evidence against Godber. On the basis of his testimony, the ICAC established that in March 1971 Godber had accepted a HK$25,000 bribe from a subordinate superintendent in exchange for helping him obtain the post of divisional superintendent in Wan Chai. Armed with that testimony, the ICAC formally requested Godber’s extradition. British police arrested him in April 1974. After months of hearings and appeals, he was finally extradited to Hong Kong in January 1975.

On February 25, 1975, a Hong Kong court convicted Godber of one count of conspiracy and one count of accepting a bribe, sentencing him to four years’ imprisonment. The sentence was limited to four years because the evidence then available could establish only the HK$25,000 bribe. Even so, bringing a man who had fled to Britain back to face justice represented a major advance for Hong Kong at the time.

After judgment was delivered, Godber was placed in a prison van and taken away to serve his sentence. Large crowds gathered along the route, requiring additional police to maintain order. This was the first major case solved after the ICAC’s creation and a milestone in Hong Kong’s anti-corruption history. From then on, the Commission gradually built authority and public trust. In its first ten months alone, it received more than 5,900 reports of corruption.

The Yau Ma Tei Fruit Market Case and Syndicated Corruption

The ICAC had made its name, but catching a single retired expatriate senior officer was not enough to transform Hong Kong’s culture of corruption. It therefore turned its attention to the syndicated corruption that had long existed within the police. The case that ultimately triggered the Police–ICAC Confrontation was the sensational Yau Ma Tei Fruit Market Case.

Beginning in March 1975, a drug syndicate operated around the Yau Ma Tei Fruit Market. To evade police searches, its members concealed drugs at scattered locations and gave buyers coded instructions for collecting them. The transactions appeared highly discreet. Yet no operation could survive for long in such a busy district unless the police responsible for enforcing the law agreed to look the other way.

The syndicate therefore bribed local officers regularly. These payments were known as “squeezes.” Some officers collected the money themselves, others received it through intermediaries, and some even introduced their replacements to the traffickers before being transferred. In this way, the protective arrangement survived changes in personnel, and the two sides gradually formed a stable network of shared interests.

In August 1976, the police Narcotics Bureau raided twenty-three locations in Kowloon and the New Territories and arrested the leaders and principal members of the drug syndicate. During the searches, officers also found several ledgers recording more than 2,600 illicit payments totaling over HK$700,000. Measured against prices at the time, the syndicate was paying an average of about HK$10,000 a day to bribe law-enforcement officers.

The drug trial concluded in May 1977. Three participants in the trafficking operation agreed to become accomplice witnesses and identify the officers who had taken illicit payments. For several months, ICAC investigators went to the prison and recorded more than four hundred pages of statements. They then used the dates, amounts, and nicknames in the ledgers to identify the corresponding officers one by one. They arranged photographic identifications and cross-checked what different witnesses said against bank records and the ledgers.

This was the crucial difference between syndicated corruption and an ordinary bribery case. An ordinary case usually seeks to prove that a particular person took money on a particular occasion. In the Fruit Market Case, the ICAC had to prove the existence of an entire protection network that operated continuously. One person collected payments, another passed on warnings, and another let the traffickers through during patrols. They might not have dealt with one another directly, but together they sustained the same illegal network.

After months of investigation, more than one hundred ICAC investigators assembled at the Operations Department before dawn on September 19, 1977. Divided into more than fifty teams, they simultaneously made arrests at police stations and police quarters. The ICAC conducted a second operation two days later. Across the two operations, it arrested 87 police officers suspected of accepting bribes. By October, the Commission had identified 262 serving or former civil servants, of whom 119 had been arrested and 84 interviewed.

It is important to note that these people were subjects of investigation; that does not mean they were all ultimately convicted in court. For the police force, however, the scale of the inquiry was already deeply unsettling. The ICAC was no longer pursuing one fugitive chief superintendent. It had begun dismantling a far-reaching corruption network that remained embedded inside the force.

The Police–ICAC Confrontation and the Partial Amnesty

The mass arrests quickly provoked a fierce backlash inside the police. Many officers believed that the ICAC’s investigative methods were too aggressive and that testimony from convicted prisoners was unreliable. Still more alarming was the fact that the Commission was investigating not just a handful of officers, but informal practices that had taken root in the force decades earlier. If the inquiry continued, no one knew how far it would reach.

Some officers drafted a petition demanding that the Commissioner of Police press the government to end the ICAC investigation of the force. Hong Kong had about 17,000 police officers at the time, and more than 11,000 of them signed. In other words, over 60 percent of the force—whether or not they were implicated in corruption—expressed opposition to the ICAC’s approach.

On October 28, 1977, the Police–ICAC Confrontation reached its climax in the incident described at the beginning of this episode. For the colonial government, ending the investigation then would have destroyed the ICAC’s independence and credibility. But if it made no concession, growing antagonism within the police might jeopardize Hong Kong’s most basic public order.

In the days after the confrontation, the colonial government held a series of emergency meetings. On November 5, it finally announced a policy that became known as the “partial amnesty”: as a rule, the ICAC would no longer investigate corrupt conduct that had occurred before January 1, 1977.

The word “amnesty” did not mean that every officer’s past conduct was wiped clean. Legally, the measure was closer to an administrative directive from the governor ordering the ICAC to narrow the scope of its investigations into old cases. The Commission could continue investigating people who had already been interviewed and clearly confronted with suspected offenses, people for whom arrest warrants had been issued, and people who were outside Hong Kong on November 5. If a case was exceptionally serious, the ICAC could also proceed after obtaining the governor’s approval.

Even so, the partial amnesty had an immediate effect. The ICAC terminated 83 active investigations, and 55 subjects in the Yau Ma Tei Fruit Market Case were no longer pursued. Their cases never entered the judicial process, so it cannot be said either that they were guilty or that they were innocent. What can be said is that, through an administrative decision, the government drew a line under a substantial number of historical cases.

From an anti-corruption perspective, this was unquestionably a retreat. Some suspected corrupt acts would now never be prosecuted. From the government’s perspective, however, it was also an exercise in political damage control: by abandoning part of the historical caseload, it allowed the police to resume normal operations while preserving the ICAC itself. The old accounts could be set aside for the moment, but from that point forward, new corruption would not receive the same tolerance.

Accountability and Oversight After the Amnesty

Morale within the ICAC initially sank after the partial amnesty was announced. Investigators had spent months organizing ledgers and taking statements, then risked a complete rupture with the police by carrying out the arrests. Now they had to watch as the government halted some of their cases. Yet many members of the public also called or wrote to the Commission, urging it to continue investigating corruption. For an organization still in its infancy, this outside support mattered enormously.

Nor did the partial amnesty bring the Fruit Market Case to a complete end. The ICAC continued gathering evidence against people who had already entered the investigative process and were therefore outside the amnesty. In 1978, the Legal Department charged twenty-four serving or former police officers and two officers from the Commerce and Industry Department with conspiracy to pervert the course of public justice. Ultimately, eighteen were convicted and received prison terms ranging from nineteen months to five years, although one was later released on appeal. Files on another 162 people were sent to the civil service authorities to determine whether disciplinary or other administrative action was warranted. This point is important: criminal prosecution is not the only anti-corruption tool. A government can also respond through internal discipline.

At the same time, the ICAC began adjusting its relationship with the police. When the Commission was first established, most senior investigators in its Operations Department came from law-enforcement agencies outside Hong Kong, while local investigators were few. After the confrontation, the ICAC gradually recruited more local investigators, and Hong Kong began improving complaint and oversight mechanisms for the Commission itself so that anti-corruption powers would not go unchecked.

From Settling Old Accounts to Building Institutions

After the partial amnesty, Hong Kong’s anti-corruption work gradually shifted from settling old accounts to the day-to-day work of institution building. Today, the ICAC is not simply an agency that arrests people. It follows a “three-pronged approach”: the Operations Department investigates cases; the Corruption Prevention Department examines procedures within government departments and public bodies and advises private organizations on preventing corruption; and the Community Relations Department handles public education and outreach. In other words, the Commission responds to corruption that has already occurred, identifies institutional vulnerabilities, and teaches residents what they can do when someone solicits a bribe.

Recent figures also illustrate this change in role. In 2025, the ICAC received 1,780 non-election corruption complaints, 14 percent fewer than the year before. In recent years, about two-thirds of complaints have concerned the private sector rather than government departments. The Commission also completed 67 corruption-prevention review reports for government departments and public bodies. Its work has expanded far beyond the “tea money” and protection payments once found within the police to cover commercial transactions, building management, public works, elections, and other fields. In the ICAC’s 2024 annual survey, 98.7 percent of respondents said that they had not personally encountered corruption in the preceding year, while 93.1 percent believed the Commission deserved their support. At the very least, these figures show that Hong Kong society remains willing to use and support its anti-corruption system.

The ICAC did not build that system alone. Higher civil-service pay, improved government procedures, scrutiny by the courts and the prosecuting authorities, and changing public attitudes all played a part. The Commission’s real institutional legacy is the combination of independent investigation, corruption prevention, and public education, while leaving prosecution decisions to the Legal Department and subjecting the ICAC itself to oversight by several committees. Remove any one of these mechanisms, and anti-corruption powers may lose public credibility.

The Police–ICAC Confrontation of 1977 therefore forced Hong Kong to answer an enduring question: when unlawful conduct has become routine within an organization, who investigates it, and who in turn restrains the investigators? Half a century later, corruption has not disappeared, but society’s default expectations have changed. When Godber escaped, people saw how an institution could allow one man to get away. The ICAC’s deeper influence today is that most people receiving a public service or conducting a business transaction no longer have to ask: Will I need to pay “tea money” this time?

Perhaps the greatest success of an anti-corruption agency comes not when it arrests the largest number of people, but when bribery is no longer treated as an ordinary fact of life.

Key Timeline

• 1948: The Prevention of Corruption Ordinance is enacted, with anti-corruption work entrusted to an office within the police force.
• May 14, 1971: The Prevention of Bribery Ordinance takes effect. Section 10 requires public servants to explain assets that are manifestly disproportionate to their income.
• June 8, 1973: Police Chief Superintendent Peter Godber escapes through Singapore to Britain, prompting mass public protests.
• October 1973: Governor Murray MacLehose proposes an independent anti-corruption body in the Legislative Council.
• February 15, 1974: The ICAC is formally established, and the work and files of the police Anti-Corruption Office begin to be transferred.
• January 1975: Godber is extradited to Hong Kong. The following month, he is convicted of conspiracy and accepting a bribe and sentenced to four years’ imprisonment.
• September 19 and 21, 1977: The ICAC conducts mass arrest operations in connection with the Yau Ma Tei Fruit Market Case, detaining 87 police officers.
• October 28, 1977: More than two thousand officers and family members petition at Police Headquarters. Some officers then go to Hutchison House, where a confrontation with ICAC staff takes place.
• November 1977: MacLehose issues the partial amnesty, generally halting new investigations into corrupt conduct committed before 1977 while preserving several exceptions.
• 1978: Proceedings connected with the Fruit Market Case are heard in three trials. Twenty-six people are charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of public justice; eighteen are convicted, although one is later released on appeal.

Key Figures

• Peter Godber: A chief superintendent in the Hong Kong Police Force who fled to Britain while under investigation for possessing vast unexplained wealth. After being extradited to Hong Kong, he was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment for conspiracy and accepting a bribe.
• Murray MacLehose: Governor of Hong Kong during the 1970s. He drove the creation of the ICAC and later made the political decision to issue a partial amnesty after the Police–ICAC Confrontation.
• Sir Alastair Blair-Kerr: Head of the commission of inquiry into the Godber case. His report concluded that it would be difficult to restore public trust as long as the anti-corruption body remained inside the police force.
• Louis Cheung Wah-pong and Tony Lui Shu-tung: ICAC investigators in the Yau Ma Tei Fruit Market Case who helped take witness statements, analyze ledgers, and organize photographic identifications.

Key Laws and Concepts

• Section 10 of the Prevention of Bribery Ordinance: When a public servant’s standard of living or assets are manifestly disproportionate to their official income, the law requires a satisfactory explanation of the source. The prosecution must still first prove foundational facts, including the defendant’s status, control of the assets, and the manifest disproportion between those assets and official income.
• Independent Commission Against Corruption Ordinance: The 1974 ordinance that established the ICAC and conferred functions relating to investigation, arrest, search, and corruption prevention. The Commission investigates; the prosecuting authorities decide whether charges should be brought.
• Accomplice witness: A person who participated in or was implicated in an offense and later gives evidence for the prosecution. Cooperation does not automatically make such testimony reliable; it ordinarily still requires corroboration from ledgers, bank records, or other independent evidence.
• Syndicated corruption: A system in which multiple people receive illicit payments according to rank and function, collectively maintaining an unlawful network by providing protection, allowing activities to proceed, or passing on warnings.
• Partial amnesty: The governor’s 1977 administrative directive that, as a rule, ended ICAC investigations of corrupt conduct committed before 1977. It was neither a judicial acquittal nor a blanket amnesty for every old case.

On September 5, 1993, twelve Japanese women who had spent decades living in China arrived at Narita Airport.

They held Japanese passports and hoped to settle in Japan, but they had neither secured sponsors to receive them nor found places to live. Under the policy then in force, obtaining government assistance with travel and resettlement was difficult without a sponsor. Rather than wait any longer, they made their own way to Japan, carrying a petition addressed to the prime minister, and spent the night at the airport.

Their action became known as the kyōkō kikoku incident: a return undertaken in defiance of the usual procedures. The phrase referred to their decision to return before reception arrangements were complete. It did not mean that they had entered the country illegally.

Forty-eight years after Japan’s defeat, why did they still have to take such a step to live in their own country? The war had left all of them in China. Why, then, did war orphans gradually receive public attention while other women were long treated as people who had chosen to stay?

The Age of Thirteen

In Japanese administrative usage, Japanese people who were compelled to remain in China amid the upheaval surrounding the end of the war in 1945 are collectively known as Japanese people left behind in China.

One category is Japanese orphans left behind in China, the war orphans discussed in episode 16 of my podcast. Under the official criteria, these were people who had been separated from their guardians, or whose guardians had died, amid the chaos of war. They were generally under thirteen at the time, did not know identifying details such as their Japanese names or places of family registration, and remained in China as they grew up. Many were raised by Chinese families.

The rest were classified as women and others left behind in China. This category included not only women but also other people who did not meet the criteria for war orphans, although women made up the majority. The term “women” is retained here to reflect the administrative category used at the time.

Thirteen was not the legal age of adulthood, nor was age the only criterion for classification. Still, differences in age and knowledge of one’s identity shaped how these people were treated. Young children were seen as orphans whose relatives needed to be found. Women who were a little older, remembered their names, and had married in China were more readily assumed to have chosen to stay.

But in northeastern China in 1945, how much choice did they really have?

The Circumstances of Staying

These women had come to China for different reasons. Some had accompanied their parents as members of Manchurian settler groups. Others were settlers’ wives. Still others had responded to recruitment campaigns and traveled to northeastern China as “continental brides.”

In 1932, Japan established the puppet state of Manchukuo in northeastern China and subsequently sent a growing number of civilians to settle there. Many settlers were ordinary farmers, but the settlement program was part of Japan’s colonial policy, serving purposes of both occupation and defense. The land they received was not simply unclaimed wilderness; some of it had been farmland belonging to Chinese peasants. An account of these women’s later suffering cannot leave out that context.

Toward the end of the war, large numbers of able-bodied men in the settler communities were conscripted, leaving mostly older people, women, and children behind. On August 9, 1945, the Soviet Union entered the war against Japan, and the Red Army advanced into northeastern China. Many settler groups fled in haste. Some people died in the fighting, others during the flight, and still others from hunger, bitter cold, and disease in refugee shelters.

Those who survived first had to find a way to stay alive. Some children were entrusted to Chinese families, while some women found food, shelter, and protection by marrying Chinese men. The circumstances of each marriage differed. Some began as a means of survival in desperate conditions; some also developed into lasting bonds through years of shared life. They cannot all be described as coercion or exchange. Equally, the fact that a woman later married and had children does not establish that she originally had a free choice.

In 1953, Japan enacted the Act on Assistance for Families of Unrepatriated Persons and Others. It provided aid to families remaining in Japan and relief for some returnees. But its general definition of an unrepatriated person excluded those considered to be staying abroad of their own volition. Whether a person’s absence was deemed voluntary could therefore determine eligibility for assistance.

This did not mean that the law automatically disqualified every woman who had married a Chinese man. The real difficulty was deciding, after flight, hunger, and the separation of families, whether someone had been unable to return or unwilling to do so.

Help That Came Late

Japan and China normalized diplomatic relations in 1972. The following year, the Japanese government decided to cover travel expenses for the first temporary home visit by Japanese people left behind in China. In 1981, it began organizing group visits by war orphans to search for relatives. Television programs and newspapers carried their photographs and biographical details in the hope that someone would recognize a family member lost decades earlier.

In 1984, Japan and China exchanged diplomatic documents on the war orphans, confirming that they could return permanently if they wished, even if no relatives had been found in Japan. To put this arrangement into practice, the Japanese government introduced a resettlement sponsor system in 1985 for orphans whose identities had not yet been established.

Finding relatives, however, did not guarantee that anyone would receive them. Decades had passed. Parents might have died, and siblings had lives of their own. Some relatives feared the burden of supporting the returnees and their families and were unwilling to take responsibility for receiving them. This was a particular obstacle for women who had always known their identities.

In 1989, the government created a “special resettlement sponsor” system to find alternative sponsors for orphans whose identities had been established but whose relatives refused to receive them. It was not until 1991 that this system was extended to women and others left behind in China.

These sponsors primarily helped with preparations for return, coordination of resettlement, and everyday life. Their role was not to certify the returnees’ nationality. Such help was indeed necessary for older people who lacked housing and could not speak Japanese. But extending the system did not mean that a sponsor would immediately be found. As long as sponsors and places to settle remained unavailable, applicants had little choice but to keep waiting.

The Twelve Women Take Action

Morihiro Hosokawa’s cabinet took office in the summer of 1993. The new prime minister’s acknowledgment of Japan’s past wars of aggression led some of the women and their supporters to believe that a direct appeal might win his help. They decided to return to Japan without waiting for the government to complete the reception arrangements.

People who had long supported Japanese returnees through private aid efforts helped organize the action. The twelve women were led by sixty-nine-year-old Ms. Takekoshi. They prepared a petition to the prime minister, saying that some two thousand others in China also hoped to return and asking the government to give them the opportunity to come back to their homeland.

On September 5, the twelve arrived at Narita at their own expense. The youngest was fifty-six, the oldest eighty. They intended to petition the prime minister, but they were unable to take up their appeal with his office that day. With no accommodation arranged, they decided to spend the night in the airport lobby.

One detail needs clarification. Although the twelve are usually described collectively as “women left behind in China,” Masanobu Okitsu, a longtime supporter of returnees, has noted in his account of this history that eight belonged to that category and four were classified as war orphans. They did not all fall within the same administrative category, but all had faced difficulty securing arrangements for someone to receive them.

Maki Okubo, the Asahi Shimbun reporter who interviewed them at the airport, had been notified by a support group two days earlier. The story did not immediately become major news. The following day, however, the Asahi Shimbun and the Mainichi Shimbun gave it substantial coverage. Television news and morning programs followed, and more reporters arrived at the airport. The twelve women’s predicament quickly entered public view.

On September 6, Ministry of Health and Welfare officials took them to the Settlement Promotion Center for Japanese Orphans Repatriated from China in Tokorozawa, Saitama Prefecture. In a subsequent written response to the Diet, the government confirmed that they had entered the center and were receiving training to adjust to life in Japan. It was consulting them about their preferences and coordinating places for them to settle. Their night at the airport was over, but the question of how they would live in the years ahead remained unresolved.

Their action brought the practical barriers into sharp focus: twelve women holding Japanese passports had already arrived in Japan, yet they were still struggling to secure help with resettlement.

The State’s Responsibility

In a written response dated October 22, 1993, the Japanese government expressly denied that it regarded people as having remained in China voluntarily simply because they had been thirteen or older at Japan’s defeat. It said that thirteen was only a guideline for identity investigations and that repatriation assistance itself did not distinguish between orphans and women. Yet it continued to require resettlement sponsors, promising only to recruit more of them and arrange placements faster.

On November 9, Health and Welfare Minister Keigo Ouchi discussed the twelve women’s experience before the House of Representatives Committee on Health and Welfare. He described them as victims of history and said that the administration had to do more than speak politely: it needed to find ways to meet their requests. He also said that the state should approach the issue with a commitment to taking ultimate responsibility, including arranging sponsors and ensuring that no one was left out.

On December 15, Japan and China exchanged new diplomatic documents. The Japanese Ministry of Health and Welfare also announced a three-year plan, beginning in fiscal 1994, to receive Japanese people left behind in China who wished to return permanently as soon as possible.

On March 29, 1994, the Diet passed the Act to Facilitate the Repatriation of Japanese People Left Behind in China and Others and Support Their Self-Reliance after Permanent Return. It was promulgated on April 6 and took effect on October 1. This article uses the law’s title as originally enacted and refers to it below as the Repatriation and Self-Reliance Support Act.

Article 1 explicitly recognized that these people had been unable to return amid the upheaval caused by the war and had been compelled to remain abroad. Articles 3 through 5 set out the responsibilities of the national and local governments to facilitate their return and support their lives afterward. Subsequent provisions specified assistance with travel expenses, initial settlement grants, advice on daily life, Japanese-language learning, housing, employment, and education.

Not all of these forms of assistance were new, and the law was not the product of the twelve women’s action alone. Private support efforts, parliamentary questioning, and policy changes had been under way for years. The Narita incident made reform more urgent and helped give support that had largely depended on administrative measures a clearer statutory basis.

This was still not a law providing compensation for harm caused by the state. It established repatriation and living support; it did not resolve questions of war responsibility or damages. But it made one point clear: helping these people return and settle was a responsibility of the national and local governments, not something that could be left to relatives and volunteers alone.

After Returning

The women’s experiences are less widely known than those of the war orphans, but they were no fewer in number. As of July 31, 2026, Japan’s Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare recorded 6,731 permanent returnees among Japanese people left behind in China: 2,557 war orphans and 4,174 women and others. These figures count the returnees themselves, excluding accompanying family members.

Changes to the system did not automatically remove the difficulties of life after return. Language, housing, income, and family relationships all required long-term support. Japan later amended the support law and introduced new pension and living-support measures in 2008. The 1994 legislation was an important step in that longer process.

We should, of course, respect people’s choices about their lives. But we must also recognize the circumstances in which those choices were made. The fact that a woman found a way to survive the war cannot justify treating the decades of separation that followed as her own responsibility.

Nor does returning to Japan erase her family and the life she built in China. Those experiences do not lose their significance when she sets foot on Japanese soil again. The freedom to return, to stay, and to continue living with family members from China: these are the choices that such long-delayed assistance should seek to protect.

People Mentioned

• Rie Takekoshi (竹越リヱ): Leader of the 1993 return, aged sixty-nine at the time. She contacted fellow participants, prepared the petition to the prime minister, and led the twelve women to Japan at their own expense.
• Maki Okubo (大久保真紀): An Asahi Shimbun reporter who interviewed the twelve women at Narita and continued to follow their lives after repatriation. Her reporting and later recollections are important sources on the incident.
• Morihiro Hosokawa (細川護熙): Became prime minister in 1993. His acknowledgment of Japan’s wars of aggression raised hopes among the women and their supporters that they might secure repatriation assistance. The twelve women addressed their petition to him.
• Keigo Ouchi (大内啓伍): Japan’s minister of health and welfare at the time. In a Diet response in November 1993, he said that the state should take ultimate responsibility for securing reception arrangements for returnees.
• Masanobu Okitsu (興津正信): A Japanese-language teacher with a long history of supporting returnees from China. In his account of the women’s history, he noted that the twelve participants comprised eight women in the administrative category of women left behind in China and four war orphans.

Laws and Concepts

• Japanese people left behind in China: Japanese people who were unable to return amid the upheaval surrounding the end of the war and were compelled to remain in China for many years. The group includes both war orphans and those classified as women and others.
• Japanese orphans left behind in China: People separated from their guardians, or whose guardians died, amid wartime upheaval, who were generally under thirteen at the time, whose identifying details were unknown, and who remained in China as they grew up. Thirteen was a guideline for identity investigations, not a legal threshold for adulthood. Subsequent identification did not remove a person from the war-orphan category.
• Women and others left behind in China: Those among the Japanese people left behind in China who did not fall within the war-orphan category. Most were women, but the category also included men. “Women” reflects the historical administrative terminology; it does not establish that those concerned had voluntarily remained in China.
• Resettlement sponsor: Known in Japanese as mimoto hikiukenin (身元引受人), a person who primarily helped with preparations before return, coordination of resettlement, and advice on everyday life afterward. Under the policy at the time, securing a sponsor was an important precondition for repatriation assistance. It was not a procedure for proving Japanese nationality.
• Special resettlement sponsor system: A system for finding alternative sponsors for people whose identities had been established but whose relatives in Japan would not receive them. Introduced for war orphans in 1989, it was extended to women and others in 1991. Wider eligibility did not mean that reception arrangements could be secured immediately.
• Act on Assistance for Families of Unrepatriated Persons and Others: Act No. 161 of 1953. Article 2 excluded people considered to be staying abroad of their own volition from its general definition of unrepatriated persons. It did not provide that marriage to a Chinese person automatically disqualified someone from assistance. See the text as originally enacted .
• Repatriation and Self-Reliance Support Act: The short title used here for the 1994 Act to Facilitate the Repatriation of Japanese People Left Behind in China and Others and Support Their Self-Reliance after Permanent Return. Articles 3–5 set out national and local government responsibilities; Articles 6–11 provide for travel expenses, initial settlement grants, advice on daily life, Japanese-language learning, housing, employment, and education. It concerns repatriation and living support, rather than compensation for harm caused by the state. See Act No. 30 of 1994 as originally enacted .
• The 2007 amendment and new support measures: Japan amended the support law in 2007 and introduced new pension, support-payment, and community-support measures in April 2008. These were later reforms and should not be read back into the original 1994 law. See the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare’s policy explanation .

References

The sources below are in Japanese; English titles are provided for reference.

• Maki Okubo, “The Determined Return of Japanese Women Left Behind in China: Witnessing the Power to Open a New Era” (中国残留婦人の強行帰国　時代を切り開く力を見た), Asahi Shimbun, June 2, 2013. Full text reproduced here .
• Masanobu Okitsu, “Do You Know About ‘Returnees from China’? Part 5: Japanese Women Left Behind in China” (「中国帰国者」って知っていますか？　第5回　中国残留婦人), Kazankai Foundation, March 13, 2023.
• Government of Japan, “Written Response to Questions Concerning the Permanent Repatriation of Japanese Women Left Behind in China” (中国残留婦人の永住帰国の実現に関する質問に対する答弁書), October 22, 1993.
• National Diet of Japan, Proceedings of the House of Representatives Committee on Health and Welfare, 128th Diet , November 9, 1993, response by Keigo Ouchi.
• Support and Communication Center for People Returning from China, “A Brief History of the Issue of Japanese People Left Behind in China” (中国残留邦人問題に関する略史).
• Memorial Museum for Peace: Japanese Settlers in Manchuria, “Brief Facts about the Manchurian and Mongolian Settlement Program,” with a chronology (満蒙開拓ミニ知識).
• Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare, “Summary of Findings from the Survey of Living Conditions of Returnees from China” (中国帰国者生活実態調査結果の概要). The definitions of orphans and women and others appear at the end.
• Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare, “Statistics on Japanese People Left Behind in China and Others” (中国残留邦人等の状況). This article uses the figures as of July 31, 2026.

Related Episode

This article offers further reading for episode 16 of Reasoned Talk, “Repatriation Was Not a Homecoming: Japan’s War Orphans and Their State Redress Lawsuits .” If you have not yet listened, the episode explores how more than two thousand repatriated war orphans used litigation to question the Japanese government’s responsibility for their return and resettlement. You are also welcome to follow my WeChat official account, 议正言辞 (Reasoned Talk), and share your thoughts in the comments.

The explanation sounds complete. Unfortunately, that is not what California law says. This article is not meant to dwell on the gossip itself. It focuses instead on the legal questions involved, especially California’s rules on surrogacy, assisted reproduction, and parentage.

The claim that a father who is not present must be treated as a sperm donor is legally wrong. But it happens to touch on an important question in California’s law of assisted reproduction: why might a child’s “biological father” not be the child’s “legal father”?

To answer that question, we have to return to California and a series of cases that began more than half a century ago.

The “Sperm Donor” and the Legal Father

Once the online claim is taken apart, it becomes clear that it confuses three entirely different things: egg retrieval, sperm donation, and legal parentage.

Egg retrieval is simply a medical procedure. A woman may have her eggs retrieved and frozen, use them to form an embryo with someone’s sperm, or do nothing further with them. The mere act of retrieving eggs does not somehow create a legal father.

Likewise, whether a man is a “sperm donor” does not depend on whether he personally appeared on the day of an egg retrieval. California Family Code section 7613 addresses the issue in detail. For example, when a man provides semen to a physician or licensed sperm bank for assisted reproduction by a woman who is not married to him, he is generally treated as a donor, rather than the child’s legal father.

But the statute immediately provides an exception. If, before conception, the man and the woman sign a written agreement that he is to be a parent, he is not merely a donor in the ordinary sense; he becomes the child’s legal father. Even without a qualifying written document, a court may in some circumstances find, by clear and convincing evidence, that the woman and the man had reached an oral agreement before conception to become the child’s parents.

In other words, California law is really asking what the man was doing when he provided the sperm: was he making a donation, or was he having a child of his own? That is a question of legal intent.

Intended Parents in Surrogacy

If we use the scenario suggested by the online rumor—one person provides the egg, another provides the sperm, and a third woman carries and gives birth to the child—the legal issue is usually one of gestational surrogacy.

It is important to distinguish two concepts. California law recognizes two forms of surrogacy:

• Traditional surrogacy: the surrogate both carries the pregnancy and provides her own egg, so she has a genetic relationship with the child;
• Gestational surrogacy: the gestational carrier carries and gives birth to the child but has no genetic relationship to the embryo. This is the more common form in modern commercial surrogacy.

California law creates a particularly important status within this framework: the intended parent. Family Code section 7960 defines an intended parent as an individual, whether married or unmarried, who manifests an intent to be legally bound as the parent of a child resulting from assisted reproduction. The focus is on intent—whether the person is willing to take responsibility for the child—not simply on whether that person provided genetic material.

This marks one of the most important conceptual shifts in California’s surrogacy law. In natural reproduction, the biological parents are usually easy to identify: the woman who gives birth is the mother, and the man who provides the sperm is the father. Assisted reproductive technology, however, can involve five different roles: the person who provides the egg, the person who provides the sperm, the person who carries the pregnancy, the person who plans to raise the child, and the person who ultimately assumes parental responsibility in law. The original simplicity of parentage therefore breaks down, and the law has to answer a seemingly strange question: which relationship is sufficient to create the status of “parent”?

A Man Can Be a Father Without a Genetic Link

California courts confronted this question seriously before in vitro fertilization and commercial surrogacy became widespread.

In 1968, the California Supreme Court decided People v. Sorensen. Sorensen was infertile, but he agreed that his wife could undergo artificial insemination using another man’s sperm. After the child was born, the couple lived together for several years. When the marriage later broke down, Sorensen argued that the child was not his and that he had no duty to pay support. The case may seem straightforward today, but in 1968 it presented a new problem.

The California Supreme Court held that Sorensen was still the child’s legal father. He knew that his wife would use another man’s sperm, consented to the reproductive process, and had intended from the beginning that the child would become part of their family. In the context of assisted reproduction, therefore, fatherhood is not tied strictly to genetic connection.

The decision became an important foundation for California’s law of parentage in assisted reproduction. But it also led to a harder question. If a person can be a father without a genetic link, must the woman who carries and gives birth to the child always be the mother?

Can a Woman Become a Mother Without a Genetic Link?

Johnson v. Calvert (1993) was the real turning point in California’s law of surrogacy. The Calverts wanted a child, but Crispina Calvert had undergone a hysterectomy and could not carry a pregnancy, although her ovaries could still produce eggs. Doctors therefore used her egg and her husband’s sperm to create an embryo, which they implanted in another woman, Anna Johnson. Crispina was the child’s genetic mother, while Anna was the gestational mother, who carried the pregnancy for ten months and gave birth. When the relationship between the parties broke down, the question of who was the child’s true mother reached the California Supreme Court for the first time.

The California Supreme Court adopted a standard that would have lasting influence. When the genetic mother and the gestational mother are different people, the court should ask who originally intended to bring about the child’s birth and raise the child as her own. This is the principle of procreative intent. The court ultimately held that the Calverts were the child’s legal parents.

That step was critical. From this point onward, parenthood was no longer simply a natural status automatically determined by genetic connection or the fact of giving birth. It became a legal status that also incorporates expressed intent and legal responsibility.

“Procreative Intent” Is Not All-Powerful

If the story ended there, it would be easy to draw an overly simple conclusion: in assisted reproduction, once the parties agree in advance who the parents will be, a court can simply enforce the agreement. The reality is more complicated.

Just one year later, In re Marriage of Moschetta (1994) drew an important boundary around Johnson. The parties in that case used what we earlier called traditional surrogacy: the surrogate not only carried the pregnancy but also provided her own egg. She was therefore both the child’s genetic mother and the woman who gave birth. After the child was born, she changed her mind and refused to surrender her entire maternal status.

The intended parents argued that Johnson required the court to follow the parties’ original procreative intent. The California Court of Appeal rejected that argument. Johnson had not declared that every surrogacy contract was automatically valid. In Johnson, intent was needed because the genetic mother and the gestational mother each had a basis for claiming motherhood, and the law had to choose between them. In Moschetta, however, those two statuses were concentrated in the same woman. There were not two equally situated mothers from whom the court had to choose. The court therefore held that the surrogate was the legal mother and that a traditional surrogacy contract alone could not extinguish her parent-child relationship.

This helps explain why many countries still hesitate to legalize surrogacy: surrogacy can make an otherwise simple family relationship extremely complex, disrupting traditional ideas of family and parentage. Even within California, traditional and gestational surrogacy have presented fundamentally different legal risks from the beginning.

Even Without a Genetic Link, Someone Can Still Be a Parent

The case that pushed the principle of procreative intent furthest was In re Marriage of Buzzanca (1998).

The facts were extraordinary. The Buzzancas decided to have a child through assisted reproduction, but neither the husband’s sperm nor the wife’s egg was used, and a third woman carried and gave birth to the child. The intended couple had no genetic relationship with the child, and neither did the gestational surrogate. To make matters worse, the Buzzancas separated before the child was born. The husband then argued that he was not the biological father and had no duty to support the child.

The trial court initially reached a startling conclusion: the child had no legal parents. The California Court of Appeal quickly reversed. The child had come into the world because the Buzzancas had jointly initiated and agreed to the entire assisted-reproduction process. If a person could actively bring about a child’s birth and then withdraw from parenthood simply because there was no genetic link, the child would be the only victim of the arrangement. The court therefore held that both members of the couple were the child’s legal parents.

By this point, California law had undergone a profound shift. The basis of parenthood had moved away from biological facts alone and toward a combination of procreative intent, prior consent, and the legal responsibility that follows from them.

From Case Law to Legislation

Building on these cases, California enacted AB 1217 in 2012. The law turned decades of case law into a more procedural framework and established a dedicated system for gestational surrogacy in Family Code section 7962.

Under the statute, a valid gestational-surrogacy agreement must state, among other things:

• who provided the gametes (and, if donated sperm, eggs, or embryos were used, what kind of donation was involved);
• who the intended parent or parents are;
• how the medical expenses of the gestational carrier and the newborn will be covered.

Before signing the agreement, the gestational carrier and the intended parent or parents must each have separate, independent counsel. One lawyer cannot represent both sides. The agreement must also be formally executed, with the signatures notarized or witnessed through an equivalent procedure. Once these requirements have been satisfied, the parties may ask a court to establish parentage before the child is born. The court may then determine that the intended parent or parents named in the agreement are the child’s legal parents and that the gestational carrier and her spouse or partner are not the child’s legal parents.

The 2017 decision in C.M. v. M.C. further confirmed this framework. A man used his own sperm and anonymously donated eggs to create embryos, which a gestational carrier carried. After becoming pregnant, the carrier changed her mind and sought parental rights. The court nevertheless held that, when the statutory procedures in section 7962 have been satisfied, the man named in the agreement is the child’s sole legal father and the gestational carrier has no parental rights. The Court of Appeal affirmed.

From Johnson to C.M., California law spent more than two decades doing the same basic thing: moving the question of “who are the parents?” from after the child’s birth to before it. The aim was to clarify responsibility while the child was still unborn and reduce disputes that could affect the child’s development.

Epilogue

The online rumor looks very different in light of this framework. California’s current law of gestational surrogacy is a detailed system. It requires a written agreement and focuses on the parties’ intentions before conception; it also requires independent counsel, notarization or witnessing, and even permits a parentage judgment before the child is born. The legal question is therefore far more complicated than the rumor suggests.

The real value of the celebrity surrogacy controversy is that it gives ordinary people who know little about these new legal relationships a glimpse into how a developed legal system has approached them. For most of human history, identifying a child’s parents was not especially difficult. Genetic connection, pregnancy, birth, caregiving, and inheritance usually centered on the same two people. Assisted reproductive technology has made that question much more complex.

When the person who provides the sperm may not be the father, the person who provides the egg may not be the mother, the woman who carries and gives birth may not be the mother, and someone who provided neither sperm nor egg and never carried the pregnancy may still become a legal parent, the law must answer a question that barely existed before: is parenthood a biological fact, or a legal relationship?

From Sorensen in 1968, through Johnson in 1993, to Family Code section 7962 today, California has taken more than half a century to formulate its answer. Genetic connection and the fact of giving birth remain important. But in modern assisted reproduction, a third element has entered the definition of parenthood: the intention and responsibility that bring a child into the world.

Primary Legal Materials

People v. Sorensen, 68 Cal.2d 280 (1968)

Johnson v. Calvert, 5 Cal.4th 84 (1993)

In re Marriage of Moschetta, 25 Cal.App.4th 1218 (1994)

In re Marriage of Buzzanca, 61 Cal.App.4th 1410 (1998)

K.M. v. E.G., 37 Cal.4th 130 (2005)

C.M. v. M.C., 7 Cal.App.5th 1188 (2017)

California Family Code §§ 7606, 7613, 7960–7962

California Probate Code §§ 6450, 6453

Note: This article discusses assisted reproduction and parentage under the law of California, United States. It does not address how Chinese law evaluates surrogacy itself, and it does not mean that a parentage judgment issued in California will automatically be recognized in another jurisdiction.

This is the transcript of episode 16 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

Tokyo, January 31, 2007. About one hundred elderly people repatriated from China gathered outside Japan’s Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare. Carrying placards and handing out leaflets, they fiercely condemned the Japanese government for evading its responsibility for the war. Most were already in their sixties. Although they had lived in Japan for ten or twenty years and obtained legal status there, many still spoke limited Japanese. Even so, they raised their voices, hoping to win the support of Japanese society.

These elderly people were Japanese war orphans who had grown up in China. When Japan was defeated in 1945, thousands of Japanese children failed to evacuate with other Japanese civilians. They remained in China and were raised by Chinese families. Many years later, some returned to Japan and reunited with relatives. Yet language barriers and difficulty finding work left most of them in poverty.

To hold the Japanese government responsible for the war and to secure their legal rights, more than two thousand repatriated orphans living in Japan sued the state for damages. The day before the gathering, on January 30, the Tokyo District Court had dismissed every claim brought by the first group of Tokyo plaintiffs. The “heartless” judgment ignited their anger. The next day, these elderly plaintiffs took to the streets and made their voices heard.

Among them was a woman in her sixties named Sumie Ikeda, the leader of the Tokyo plaintiffs. But “Sumie Ikeda” was not her only name. Over the course of a long and difficult life, she had three. Her experience came to embody that of Japan’s repatriated war orphans. To understand their years-long struggle for redress, we must begin with her story.

Three Names and a Fifty-Two-Year Search for Family

Sumie Ikeda was born in 1944 and was not yet one year old when Japan was defeated. The Soviet Red Army entered northeastern China and launched a full-scale offensive against Japan’s Kwantung Army. Ikeda’s biological father, a junior officer in the Japanese military, was captured. Her mother fled with the family’s five children. Exhausted and unable to produce enough milk, she entrusted the youngest, ten-month-old Ikeda, to a local Chinese family. Ikeda was separated from her biological parents and became a war orphan raised in China. Her foster father’s surname was Xu, so she was named Xu Ming—the first name of her life.

In public interviews, Xu remembered her childhood through the concrete details of life in a Chinese family. Her foster parents were merchants. When the family was prosperous, they bought her beautiful clothes. Whenever her foster mother took her out, she worried that the girl might fall or get lost. The family later lost its money and her foster father was imprisoned. Xu and her foster mother were left to depend on each other amid hunger and deprivation.

At first, Xu did not know that she was Japanese. When she was seven, her school showed the students an anti-Japanese film. Angered by the invading Japanese army’s atrocities on screen, some children turned that anger against her. One classmate pointed at her and called her a “little Japanese devil.” Furious and terrified, she hid beneath a seat and cried. A teacher came to her defense, pulled her out, and told the class that Xu Ming was only a child: the crimes of the Japanese army had nothing to do with her. It was the first time Xu understood her national identity. Inspired by the teacher, she resolved to help others in the same way.

As a young woman, Xu entered Mudanjiang Normal School. After graduation, she was assigned to teach at an elementary school run by a forestry bureau. She applied to join the Chinese Communist Party but was not admitted because she was Japanese. In 1972, Japanese prime minister Kakuei Tanaka visited China and relations between the two countries began to normalize. With support from both governments, Japanese orphans remaining in China began searching for relatives in Japan. Xu’s foster parents did not stand in her way; instead, they helped her ask around.

In 1980, an elderly man in Hokkaido contacted Xu and said that she might be his biological daughter. The following year, she traveled to Hokkaido with her three children to search for family. Further testing showed that the two were not father and daughter. Xu and her children were stranded in Japan without even enough money for flights back to China when the Chinese consulate in Hokkaido offered assistance. With help from several quarters, she reached Tokyo and supported herself through temporary work. In 1982, a family-court ruling enabled her to enter a Japanese family register. She borrowed the surname of an interpreter and took the character for “Ming” from Xu Ming to form the given name Akiko. She became Akiko Imamura, the second name of her life.

Through her own efforts, Imamura later found work at a law office. Her main responsibility was helping other repatriated war orphans obtain places in Japanese family registers. By 1994, she had almost abandoned hope of finding her own family. Then, at a public family-search event, she happened to meet her biological sisters. Seventeen months of identification work finally confirmed their relationship. She was already fifty-one and both biological parents had died. In the family register she found the name she had been given at birth: Sumie Ikeda, the third name of her life.

From Xu Ming to Sumie Ikeda, she spent fifty-two years and three names completing the long search for her family. More than 2,500 repatriated orphans in Japan lived through similar experiences. They grew up indebted to Chinese foster parents while also encountering varying degrees of discrimination and injustice. Yet when they chose to return to Japan—to a “homeland” they scarcely knew—the first half of their lives seemed to be erased once again. They had to learn Japanese from the beginning, find work, and struggle to adapt to an unfamiliar society. Inevitably, they asked: Who had caused their suffering? Who should answer for their shattered lives?

The Colonial Background of the War Orphans

Sumie Ikeda’s story can make the war orphans seem like victims of an accidental family separation. Pull back the frame, however, and it becomes clear that they were not created by a single chance event.

The Japanese government later called them “Japanese orphans left behind in China.” The usual administrative definition covered people who had been under thirteen in 1945, had been separated from their parents, had remained in China for many years, and did not know their true identities. Their actual experiences were far more complicated. Some grew up knowing nothing of their origins. Some knew they were Japanese but did not know their Japanese names. Others, like Ikeda, obtained Japanese nationality long before they found their biological families.

Why had they been in China at all? The answer begins with Japan’s colonial policy in northeastern China. After the Mukden Incident in 1931, Japan occupied the region and established the puppet state of Manchukuo. The Japanese government then began sending large numbers of civilians there to form state-sponsored Manchurian settler groups. Most of the migrants were unarmed civilians, but they were unmistakably part of Japan’s colonial system. To the people of northeastern China, the settlers themselves were invaders.

Near the end of the war, the main forces of the Kwantung Army were repeatedly transferred to other fronts. The Japanese government knew that the Soviet Union might enter the war, yet it neither gave settlers in northeastern China adequate warning nor organized a reliable evacuation in advance. In July 1945, the Kwantung Army carried out what was called a “root-and-branch mobilization,” conscripting large numbers of working-age men from the settler communities. Those left behind in the villages were mainly older people, women, and children.

Soviet forces entered northeastern China on August 9. The settler groups quickly fell into chaos. Some people died in combat; others succumbed to hunger, disease, or bitter cold while fleeing. Faced with the prospect that neither they nor their children would survive, some mothers entrusted their youngest children to nearby Chinese families. For the children, it was a forced separation. For the Chinese people who took them in, it meant assuming a burden of care that had never been theirs, even as they themselves endured invasion and poverty.

This history therefore requires us to hold two facts in view. Japanese children were victims of the war, but the Manchurian settler groups were not ordinary migrants detached from the history of aggression. From birth, these war orphans carried a complicated identity and history. The Japanese government of the time unquestionably set this tragedy in motion.

On one side, the Japanese government was the principal force behind colonial aggression in northeastern China. Without the Mukden Incident and the creation of Manchukuo, there would have been no Manchurian settler groups and nowhere near so many war orphans. On the other, even when defeat was plainly approaching, the government failed to take effective measures to evacuate its own nationals safely. Large numbers of families were separated and, even after some people returned to Japan, they remained without meaningful support for years.

The suffering of these Japanese orphans was caused by the government’s prewar policies and, on that account, should have been the government’s responsibility. Yet even decades after the war, Japan had provided no effective compensation. Worse, a succession of government policies deepened the difficulties confronting those who tried to return.

A Delayed Return and Policy Barriers

For many years after the war, Japan and China had no formal diplomatic relations. Without normal channels between the two governments, organizing family searches and repatriation on a large scale was genuinely difficult. That obstacle disappeared after diplomatic relations were normalized in 1972. Japanese organizations began publishing photographs and information about the orphans and searching for relatives through newspapers and television. In March 1981, the first group of forty-seven orphans traveled to Japan to look for family; twenty-four confirmed relationships. More orphans followed.

The process was not very effective. By 1999, 2,116 people had visited Japan to search for relatives, but only 673 had confirmed their identities—a success rate below 32 percent. Some were recognized on their first trip. Others returned repeatedly without finding anyone. Still others, like Sumie Ikeda, experienced a false identification and did not find their real families until they had lived in Japan for more than a decade.

Finding relatives did not mean that an orphan could immediately settle in Japan. Early repatriation policies often required a relative in Japan to file the application, guarantee the applicant’s identity, and bear the cost of the journey. Orphans who had found no family could scarcely meet those conditions. Even those who had located relatives remained outside the country if the relatives were unwilling to receive them.

Only after Japan and China exchanged documents in 1984 did Japan begin accepting the permanent return of orphans whose identities had not yet been confirmed. The route appeared open, but procedural barriers remained. Orphans who had established their identities but could not secure the cooperation of relatives were required to find a special guarantor outside the family who would agree to receive them.

The government explained that these people entered on Chinese passports, so their identities had to be verified and someone had to help them settle after arrival. Allowing large numbers of people who spoke no Japanese to enter in a short period, without relatives or guarantors to assist them, could create new problems.

From the orphans’ perspective, however, Japan had abandoned them in a foreign country at the end of the war and, decades later, demanded proof and guarantees before allowing them to return to their own homeland. Rather than healing the original injury, this policy inflicted a second one. To the government, requirements involving relatives and guarantors were arrangements for reception and resettlement. To the orphans, they were yet another barrier the state had placed in their path.

The obstacles to repatriation were only the beginning. Life after returning proved even more difficult.

Poverty and Gaps in Support After Repatriation

According to a 2007 Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare statistic, Japanese nationals left behind in China were an average of 51.67 years old when they returned. For most people, that is an age when work and family life have begun to settle. For the repatriated orphans, it meant learning Japanese, searching for employment, and rebuilding daily life from the beginning. Qualifications and experience acquired in China were often difficult to use in Japan. People who had been teachers, technicians, or skilled workers found themselves limited to low-paid manual labor.

Mitsuo Hatsuta was one example. Born in 1943, he was two years old at Japan’s defeat and was raised by Chinese foster parents. During the Cultural Revolution, he was persecuted because of his Japanese ancestry. Hatsuta returned to Japan in 1987 at the age of forty-four. He spent years doing manual labor. When he retired at sixty, his Employees’ Pension paid only 50,000 yen a month. To supplement it, he collected aluminum cans on the street.

Japan’s pensions are tied to years of contributions. Returning late in life sharply limited the years the orphans could accumulate, while low wages and irregular employment restricted their participation in the Employees’ Pension Insurance system and their ability to build earnings-related benefits. A vicious cycle followed: without regular work, they received meager pensions; because their pensions were meager, they had to continue doing low-paid work merely to survive.

A 2003 survey found that only 38.4 percent of the repatriated orphans could conduct everyday conversations without difficulty. Just 13.9 percent were working, while 44.2 percent had never worked in Japan. Their hardship was therefore not principally the result of insufficient effort. The Japanese government had failed to provide an effective transition that gave them a realistic opportunity to adapt.

The government did take some measures. It established special settlement centers offering Japanese-language instruction and guidance in daily life, along with job placement, housing assistance, lump-sum resettlement payments, and basic livelihood support. The problem was that most programs were designed to move people into employment as quickly as possible. Several months of intensive instruction might help someone in their twenties. It could not repair the lost first half of life for a person in their fifties who spoke no Japanese and had both children and elderly relatives to support.

From Coordinated Litigation to the State Redress Act

Together, these conditions produced the repatriated orphans’ hardship. Beginning in 2002, their organizations filed state redress suits around Japan to protect their legal rights. This was not a single nationwide class action covering every plaintiff. It was a series of coordinated, multi-plaintiff cases filed and tried separately in different jurisdictions. A victory in one place therefore did not automatically benefit plaintiffs elsewhere. Each district court had to decide its own case on its own facts. That was the crucial difference from a class action.

According to the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare’s figures in May 2007, 2,233 returnees were litigating in thirteen district courts and five high courts across Japan. By that point, the overwhelming majority of the orphans who had returned were participating in the movement.

Their claims rested on article 1, paragraph 1 of Japan’s State Redress Act. Under that provision, when a public employee exercising public authority intentionally or negligently commits an unlawful act and causes loss or damage to another person, the state must compensate the injured person. The crucial word is “unlawful.” A disappointing government program does not necessarily create a claim for state redress. A court must identify a sufficiently specific legal duty, find that a public employee could have performed it but failed to do so, and determine that the unlawful conduct caused the plaintiff’s injury.

The plaintiffs asked the courts to order the Japanese government to pay each repatriated orphan 33 million yen. Their case rested principally on three contentions:

1. The government had failed to investigate their identities and organize their return at an earlier date.
2. It had imposed unreasonable policy conditions that unlawfully obstructed their repatriation.
3. After they returned, it had failed to discharge adequate duties of settlement and support for self-sufficiency.

The same arguments under the same law nevertheless produced almost opposite answers in different courts.

Kobe: A Limited Recognition of State Responsibility

Begin with Kobe. On December 1, 2006, the Kobe District Court decided the state redress claims of sixty-five plaintiffs. Sixty-one won partial relief, and the court awarded a total of 468.6 million yen. It was the most important plaintiff victory in the nationwide litigation. Yet the word “victory” can mislead. The court did not accept all three claims, nor did it hold Japan responsible for every loss caused by its colonial war.

On the first claim—whether the government had a duty to enable each orphan to return sooner—the Kobe court remained cautious. It acknowledged that the Japanese government bore a grave political responsibility to rescue the orphans. State redress, however, required additional proof that if the government had taken a particular measure in a given year, an individual plaintiff would have returned at that time. The plaintiffs differed in the identity information available to them, their family circumstances, and their desire to return. The court concluded that precise timing and causation could not be established uniformly. It therefore declined to recognize a general “duty to realize early repatriation” owed to everyone.

The second claim—obstruction of repatriation—was what truly distinguished Kobe from the other courts. It examined one by one the requirements for guarantees from relatives, applications for travel expenses, and special sponsors. The government knew that these people were Japanese children separated from their relatives by war. Yet it still treated them like ordinary foreign nationals, requiring family cooperation or guarantees not expressly mandated by law. Such conditions might serve a resettlement purpose for ordinary entrants. Applied to the orphans, they turned the very thing they lacked into a precondition for coming home.

The court ultimately found that seventeen plaintiffs had been subjected to unlawful restrictions on repatriation and calculated nonpecuniary damages according to the months of delay. Some earlier injuries nevertheless fell outside the twenty-year exclusion period then applied under the Civil Code. Civil law commonly imposes an ultimate deadline on tort claims to preserve the stability of legal relationships and to avoid the evidentiary problems created by the passage of time. Once the deadline has expired, compensation may be unavailable even when the underlying injury is real.

The plaintiffs’ third claim concerned support for self-sufficiency after repatriation. The Kobe court reasoned that earlier policies and procedures had delayed their return for years. By the time they arrived, they had missed crucial periods for learning Japanese, building careers, and accumulating pension rights. In these exceptional circumstances, the state could not provide brief training and then demand immediate economic independence.

The judgment invoked the legal concept of jōri—general principles of reason and justice. Even if no statute specified the content of support word for word, the government’s own earlier conduct had created a special disadvantage. From that condition and basic principles of fairness, the court could derive a concrete duty.

To show the level of support that duty required, the court compared the treatment of Japanese citizens abducted by North Korea. After returning to Japan, they could receive livelihood protection, Japanese-language instruction, and employment support for five years. Their experiences were not identical to those of the repatriated orphans. The comparison nevertheless showed that the state was capable of designing a complete period of reconstruction for citizens who had lived abroad for many years. The orphans likewise should have been able to spend the first five years after repatriation learning the language and receiving vocational training without immediately struggling to survive.

The Kobe judgment therefore granted part of the plaintiffs’ claims within carefully limited boundaries. It recognized state responsibility for particular administrative barriers and deficiencies in support, but it did not attempt to price the entirety of war, separation, and a lifetime rebuilt after repatriation.

Tokyo: Total Defeat Under Judicial Restraint

Two months later, the Tokyo District Court reached the opposite conclusion in a nearly identical case. On January 30, 2007, it dismissed every claim brought by the first group of Tokyo plaintiffs. The court acknowledged a historical connection between migration to Manchuria, Japan’s defeat, and the creation of the orphans. It also accepted that the orphans faced language barriers, unemployment, and poverty after coming back. Those facts, however, were not enough to support state redress.

On prewar policy, the Tokyo court reasoned that neither the State Redress Act nor the current Constitution had yet taken effect. Evaluating prewar policy under postwar law raised profound difficulties. Compensation for losses caused by war was therefore not well suited to judicial resolution and was better left to the political process.

On repatriation procedures, Tokyo again differed from Kobe. It acknowledged that applications by relatives and guarantee requirements made return more difficult. Yet the government had to coordinate diplomacy, verify identities, and arrange settlement after arrival. These complex tasks required a broad sphere of administrative discretion. Because the procedures also served legitimate purposes of reception and resettlement, the court was unwilling to find them unlawful merely because they caused delay.

Finally came support for self-sufficiency. The Tokyo court listed the settlement centers, Japanese-language instruction, employment placement, housing assistance, and livelihood protection the government had already provided. Its conclusion was that these policies might be less than ideal, but without an express statutory command they could not yet be called unlawful. A court could decide only under existing law; it could not create a new social-security program in the legislature’s place.

The difference between Kobe and Tokyo was therefore not simply a matter of individual judicial preference. Both judgments reflected serious legal considerations.

By the end of May 2007, courts had decided eight of the cases. The government had prevailed in seven; only the Kobe plaintiffs had won. Most courts declined to recognize a general duty of early repatriation or to find manifest unlawfulness in the existing support programs. Had the litigation continued, the Supreme Court might eventually have reconciled those differences. The cases never reached that point. Before the judiciary produced a uniform answer, politics changed course.

From Divided Judgments to a Political Settlement

The Tokyo judgment had been issued the day before. On the day of the ruling, Prime Minister Shinzo Abe instructed the health minister to put aside the legal issues and the outcome in court and reconsider the support program in light of the repatriated orphans’ exceptional circumstances. The following day, Sumie Ikeda and other plaintiffs continued petitioning the prime minister’s office, the Diet, and the ministry. That afternoon, Abe met their representatives.

The shift cannot be credited entirely to the hundred or so people who demonstrated in Tokyo. The Kobe judgment had already been delivered. Lawsuits were pending across the country. Lawyers, researchers, support organizations, and legislators from multiple parties had worked for years. Still, the events of those two days placed legal and political responsibility side by side. The government could argue in court that it had not acted unlawfully. Politically, it had to acknowledge that its measures might nonetheless be inadequate.

The Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare established an expert council, and the parties began negotiating a new solution. On November 28, 2007, the Diet enacted Amending Act No. 127. The new system took effect in April 2008.

The program first addressed pensions. For eligible first-generation returnees, the state made a special lump-sum payment covering contributions to the National Pension so that they could receive a full basic pension. If the pension and other household income still fell below a specified threshold, supplementary support benefits were available. Those benefits covered living expenses, housing, medical care, and nursing care. Local governments were also required to provide Japanese-language instruction, interpretation, and support for community life.

This was not the state redress demanded in the lawsuits, nor did the legislation recognize legal responsibility for the war. In essence, it remained a system of individual relief. For some plaintiffs, it resolved the immediate problem of subsistence. For others, it still left the central question unanswered.

Mitsuo Hatsuta refused to apply for the new support benefits. He did not refuse because he had no need for the money. He refused because he would not accept the reframing of state responsibility as individual welfare. In his view, “receiving relief because one’s income is inadequate” and “receiving compensation because the state caused an injury” were fundamentally different.

Even so, the new policy brought the orphans’ legal movement to an end. After the law was enacted, plaintiffs around the country gradually withdrew their cases, and the dispute never reached the Supreme Court. The Diet, rather than the courts, ultimately fashioned the political settlement for their economic security.

Two Homelands and an Old Age Still Unfolding

The story of the repatriated orphans did not end there. The day after the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake, Sumie Ikeda began contacting representatives of orphan groups across Japan to raise money for the disaster area. They collected 17.5 million yen, most of which helped build a Sino-Japanese friendship elementary school in Sichuan. For elderly people who still had little money of their own, the contribution was no small burden. They believed that they had survived the war only because Chinese families and communities had raised them. When disaster struck China, they felt obliged to do something concrete.

The networks formed during the coordinated litigation survived as well. In 2008, Ikeda and her companions founded the Association of Returnees from China and for Japan–China Friendship. It organized Japanese classes, tai chi, dance, and other activities, giving returnees scattered around the country a place to meet and talk. Members also formed “gratitude delegations” that traveled repeatedly to China to visit foster parents and tell the orphans’ stories. In September 2025, more than eighty association members and relatives traveled to Harbin once again. By then, even the youngest orphans were over eighty years old.

Their problems have gradually shifted from employment and pensions to medical care, nursing care, and loneliness in old age. Some use retirement and care facilities offering services in Chinese. Others still speak limited Japanese and need interpreters to accompany them to medical appointments. At Lunar New Year in 2026, Sumie Ikeda, then in her eighties, still attended the association’s celebration. She watched her companions perform dances and tai chi and finally joined them in singing the Japanese song “Furusato” (“Hometown”). In a recent interview, she said that they had at last reached a relatively peaceful old age.

Looking back, the coordinated lawsuits brought by the repatriated orphans lost far more judgments than they won, yet they materially improved the conditions of the plaintiffs’ lives. The courts never fully recognized the Japanese government’s entire responsibility. The litigation nevertheless forced Japanese society to acknowledge that the orphans’ hardship was not merely a collection of private misfortunes and could not be resolved through individual welfare alone.

Sumie Ikeda once had three names. Xu Ming connected her to the Chinese family that raised her; Sumie Ikeda connected her to the Japanese family into which she was born. In the end, she and the other orphans did not make an either-or choice between two homelands. Their lawsuits sought the right to live as Japanese citizens. Their donations after the Wenchuan earthquake and repeated journeys to China honored the debt they felt toward the other land that had raised them. Law answered only part of the question of how they would survive. Their lives continued to answer the longer question: Who am I?

Key Timeline

• After 1931 — Japan occupied northeastern China and established the puppet state of Manchukuo, then promoted settlement in the region as a matter of national policy. The Manchurian settler groups formed the colonial background of the orphan issue.
• August 9, 1945 — The Soviet Union entered the war against Japan and invaded northeastern China. Evacuation among the settler groups collapsed, and large numbers of children were separated from their families amid combat, hunger, and flight.
• September 1972 — Japan and China normalized diplomatic relations, and public family searches, identity investigations, and negotiations over repatriation gradually began.
• March 1981 — The first group of forty-seven Japanese orphans left behind in China traveled to Japan to search for relatives; twenty-four confirmed family relationships.
• 1984–1985 — After Japan and China exchanged documents, Japan began accepting the permanent return of orphans whose identities had not yet been confirmed and introduced a system of sponsors responsible for receiving them.
• December 20, 2002 — The first forty Tokyo plaintiffs filed their state redress action. Most repatriated orphans around the country later joined the broader litigation movement.
• December 1, 2006 — The Kobe District Court granted partial relief to sixty-one of sixty-five plaintiffs, the first judgment in this litigation to recognize state redress liability.
• January 30–31, 2007 — The Tokyo District Court dismissed all claims brought by the forty plaintiffs. The next day, they continued petitioning, and Prime Minister Shinzo Abe met representatives of the returnees.
• November 28, 2007–April 2008 — The Diet enacted Amending Act No. 127, and the new support system took effect. Plaintiffs around the country subsequently withdrew their cases.
• May 2008 — Sumie Ikeda organized repatriated orphans to raise funds after the Wenchuan earthquake, using most of the money to help build a Sino-Japanese friendship elementary school.
• October 2014 — A support program for certain spouses of first-generation returnees took effect.
• 2025–2026 — The repatriated orphans had generally reached their eighties. Support increasingly focused on medical care, nursing care, interpretation, and the prevention of social isolation.

Key Figures

• Sumie Ikeda (Xu Ming; Akiko Imamura) — Leader of the Tokyo plaintiffs. Born in northeastern China in 1944, she was entrusted to a Chinese foster family at Japan’s defeat. She traveled to Japan in 1981 to search for relatives and happened to meet her biological sisters in 1994. After seventeen months of identification work, she confirmed her origins at the age of fifty-two.
• Mitsuo Hatsuta — Leader of the Hyogo plaintiffs. Left in China at the age of two, he returned permanently to Japan at forty-four. His meager pension and need to collect aluminum cans in old age illustrated the connection among late repatriation, limited employment, and inadequate pension rights.
• Shinzo Abe — A Japanese politician who served as prime minister from 2006 to 2007 and again from 2012 to 2020. On the day the Tokyo District Court dismissed the plaintiffs’ claims, he instructed the health minister to set the legal questions and the court’s decision aside and reconsider support in light of the returnees’ exceptional circumstances. The ministry then heard from returnees and convened an expert council, and the Diet enacted the amending law later that year.
• Chinese foster parents — Chinese families who raised Japanese children amid war and poverty. Their circumstances and conduct varied, but their labor of care is indispensable to understanding the orphans’ identities and their later “gratitude visits” to China.

Key Concepts

• Japanese orphans left behind in China — In Japanese administration, the term generally referred to Japanese children who had been under thirteen in 1945, were separated from their parents in China, did not know their identities, and remained there for many years. Actual experiences did not fit a single pattern.
• Coordinated litigation — Often described in news reports as a “class action,” the movement actually consisted of state redress cases filed in different courts by local groups of plaintiffs working through coordinated legal teams and support organizations. A judgment in one jurisdiction did not automatically apply elsewhere.
• Unlawfulness under the State Redress Act — An inadequate policy or an unfair outcome does not automatically create liability. A court must identify a sufficiently specific legal duty breached by a public employee and determine whether the unlawful conduct caused the plaintiff’s injury.
• Jōri — The principles of reason and justice on which the Kobe District Court based the duty to support self-sufficiency. Even when no statute spelled out the content of support, the court could derive a concrete duty from fairness and the special disadvantage created by the state’s earlier conduct.
• Administrative discretion — The Tokyo and other courts reasoned that repatriation procedures and livelihood support required choices involving diplomacy, immigration, public finance, and social-security design. Administrative bodies therefore enjoyed a broad sphere of judgment unless policy clearly exceeded lawful bounds.
• Twenty-year exclusion period — The Kobe judgment applied the then-prevailing interpretation of the final clause of article 724 of Japan’s Civil Code and denied relief for some older injuries. That was the legal position at the time and does not represent every aspect of how the same provision is understood under current Japanese law.

Key Cases

• Kobe District Court Japanese Orphans Left Behind in China State Redress Case (Japan, Heisei 16 (Wa) No. 835 et al., December 1, 2006) — Sixty-one of sixty-five plaintiffs won partial relief totaling 468.6 million yen. The court found some restrictions on repatriation unlawful and recognized a duty to provide five years of support for self-sufficiency after return.
• Tokyo District Court Japanese Orphans Left Behind in China State Redress Case (Japan, January 30, 2007) — The court dismissed every claim brought by the first forty Tokyo plaintiffs, emphasizing the political character of postwar compensation and administrative discretion in repatriation and resettlement policy.

Key Laws and Legal Documents

• Article 1(1) of Japan’s State Redress Act (effective 1947) — When a public employee exercising public authority intentionally or negligently causes loss or damage through unlawful conduct, the state or public entity assumes responsibility to compensate. This was the principal legal basis of the orphans’ claims.
• Final clause of former article 724 of Japan’s Civil Code — At the time, courts understood this clause to extinguish a tort claim twenty years after the tortious act under an exclusion period. The Kobe judgment used it to deny some claims.
• Act on Measures on Expediting of Smooth Return of Remaining Japanese in China and for Assistance in Self-Support after Permanent Return to Japan, and Amending Act No. 127 of 2007 — Through special National Pension rules, support benefits, and local assistance, the legislation improved pensions, housing, medical care, and nursing care for first-generation returnees. Support for certain spouses was added beginning in 2014.

Related Episodes

• 04 How Did the Japanese Come to Terms with Defeat? A 32-Year Fight Against the Government — Another story of victims using litigation, public opinion, and legislation to pursue a political solution when courts could not directly recognize the full responsibility for war.

He was not a newcomer to Shaoyang. The court found that after marrying in 1996, Huang had moved there to live with his wife. They occupied a house beside the Tianjiangdu wharf, where he remained for twenty years. He made a living through casual work and street vending, while his household registration, or hukou, stayed elsewhere. The newly effective Interim Regulations on Residence Permits seemed to offer a possibility: with a residence permit, daily life, his children’s schooling, and access to employment would all become a little easier.

The police station did not issue him one. Their dispute ultimately came down to a somewhat absurd question: how could a person who had lived in one place for twenty years prove to an administrative agency that he really lived there?

Huang submitted his identity card, marriage certificate, testimony from neighbors, and a certificate issued by the village where his hukou was registered. The Interim Regulations on Residence Permits, however, required proof of an applicant’s address, employment, or enrollment in school. Huang could not produce a complete lease, property-ownership document, or proof of an employment relationship. In July 2016, the court dismissed his claim.

Few people know this case, but it is especially revealing when read after the Sun Zhigang case.

In 2003, Sun was wrongly swept into the custody-and-repatriation system because he did not have a “temporary residence permit.” Thirteen years later, Huang wanted the state to issue him a “residence permit,” only to be refused because his paperwork was incomplete. In Chinese, only one character in the name of the permit had changed. The relationship between the permit holder and the city, however, had changed with it.

“Temporary Residence” Began as Registration

Temporary-residence registration in the People’s Republic of China can be traced to the 1958 Household Registration Regulations, which remain in force today. Article 15 provides that when a citizen leaves the city or county of their permanent residence and stays in another city for more than three days, they must report for temporary-residence registration within three days and report again to cancel the registration before leaving.

What the regulations required was “registration,” not the “temporary residence permit” with which later generations became familiar. Household-registration authorities needed to know where a person came from, where they were staying, and when they left. A temporary residence permit had not yet become a document that people from elsewhere had to produce repeatedly when working, renting a home, or undergoing inspections in the city.

The regulations also contain an easily overlooked episode in Chinese legal history. The 1954 Constitution expressly guaranteed citizens freedom of residence and movement. During the drafting of the Household Registration Regulations, people asked whether registration and migration procedures would conflict with that constitutional right. The Ministry of Public Security specifically addressed the question in its explanation of the draft. The National People’s Congress website later described this legislative process as an early example in the history of the People’s Republic of conducting “constitutional review” of draft legislation.

The registration system on paper did not face its real test, however, until the period of reform and opening up.

In the 1980s, growing numbers of people left their hometowns to work in cities. Shenzhen illustrates the change particularly well. When the special economic zone was first established, Shenzhen had a registered population of only 76,200 but a permanent resident population of 314,100, which soon rose to 881,500. The city needed these builders, but it also urgently wanted to keep track of who they were.

In July 1983, Shenzhen adopted rules for issuing special-economic-zone temporary residence permits to people arriving from elsewhere. The Shenzhen Municipal Archives describes it as one of the earlier Chinese cities to implement such a permit system. Two years later, the Ministry of Public Security issued the Interim Provisions on the Administration of the Temporary Urban Population, and the temporary residence permit began to move from local experimentation toward nationwide use.

Was the Temporary Residence Permit a “Ticket into the City”?

In 1995, the Ministry of Public Security issued the Measures for the Application for Temporary Residence Permits, establishing uniform national rules for the system.

Under the measures, workers and business operators who were at least sixteen years old, had left the place of their hukou, and intended to live elsewhere for more than one month “were required to apply” for a temporary residence permit. Applicants for documents such as labor permits and business licenses had to present both an identity card and a temporary residence permit. Employers could not hire people without one. Permit holders were required to produce it when police inspected their documents. A person who still refused to register or obtain a permit after receiving notice could be warned or fined up to fifty yuan.

As originally designed, the temporary residence permit was a transitional measure through which the existing household-registration system responded to mass migration. For the first time, it allowed a rapidly moving population to be continuously recorded by urban administrative systems. It also gave people arriving from elsewhere a way to prove their identity and complete other formalities. In an era when people were pouring into cities over a short period and public services were still allocated mainly by hukou, urban administrators did need some form of transitional arrangement.

The problem was that the document gradually became more than the result of registration. It became a prerequisite for entering urban life. A person might have to show a temporary residence permit to find work, rent a home, or obtain a license. Even after living in a city for years, anyone whose hukou was elsewhere remained, in legal terms, only a “temporary resident.” Once the permit became entangled with street-level document checks, public-security campaigns, and custody and repatriation, “managing a population” could easily slide into “screening a population.”

Sun Zhigang encountered the most dangerous side of this system as it operated on the ground. Although the immediate focus of his case was the custody-and-repatriation system, the public also seized the moment to question the temporary residence permit system that had been in place for years.

The Shift from “Administration” to “Services”

The institutional turn had actually begun before the Sun Zhigang case. In 2002, Shanghai piloted a “talent residence permit.” In 2004, the city expanded the residence permit to cover more long-term residents arriving from elsewhere. The new document did more than record where a person was living. It connected the holder with specific benefits, including social insurance, compulsory education for children, professional qualification examinations, training, and public health services.

Shanghai’s pilot experience began to spread to other regions. In 2008, Shenzhen repealed its Regulations on the Household Administration of Temporary Residents in the Special Economic Zone and introduced new residence-permit measures. Guangdong implemented a province-wide residence permit in 2010. That same year, the State Council called for the gradual introduction of a residence-permit system throughout the country. Local approaches varied. Some emphasized recruiting talent, some relied on points-based administration, and some retained a strong public-security orientation. The overall direction, however, was becoming clear: the permit was to change from a simple instrument of population control into a vehicle connecting its holder to public services.

In 2014, the State Council’s Opinions on Further Advancing Reform of the Household Registration System called for the “full implementation of the residence-permit system.” One year later, the State Council promulgated the Interim Regulations on Residence Permits. In March 2018, the Ministry of Public Security formally repealed the 1995 Measures for the Application for Temporary Residence Permits. At the level of national administrative rules, the temporary residence permit had finally made its exit after more than two decades.

The principal difference between the 1995 and 2015 documents lies in the permit’s core function. The 1995 temporary residence permit was first and foremost “proof of temporary residence in another locality.” The 2015 residence permit, by contrast, was defined as proof that its holder lived in a particular place, enjoyed basic public services and conveniences there as a usual resident, and could apply to register a permanent hukou. The regulations expressly listed basic public services such as compulsory education, employment services, public health, cultural and sports programs, and legal aid. They also listed conveniences such as obtaining identity documents, registering a motor vehicle, applying for a driver’s license, and pursuing professional qualifications.

Only one Chinese character separates the names “temporary residence permit” and “residence permit,” yet the document’s main function shifted from “administration” to “services.” Applying for the permit also changed from a duty into a choice.

The old Measures for the Application for Temporary Residence Permits said that qualifying individuals “were required to apply.” The new Interim Regulations on Residence Permits provide that citizens who have lived in another city for more than six months and satisfy at least one of three conditions—lawful and stable employment, a lawful and stable residence, or continuous enrollment in education—“may apply” for a residence permit. The old measures required permit holders to produce the document during inspections and allowed authorities to fine people who refused to obtain one. The new regulations do not make the mere failure to apply for a residence permit punishable. Their penalties mainly target obtaining a permit by deception, misusing, buying, selling, or forging permits, and unlawfully confiscating another person’s residence permit.

Changing the name, of course, did not make every problem disappear. A residence permit is still not a hukou, and the public services that local governments can provide remain constrained by population size, fiscal capacity, and available resources. Points, length of residence, years of social-insurance contributions, and documentary requirements can all become barriers in practice. Huang’s case arose in precisely this gap. The court rejected his request because his materials were incomplete. As a matter of legal application, the judgment is not difficult to understand: an administrative agency issuing a permit needs standards that it can verify. Yet the case leaves a practical question behind. People who survive on casual work and live in informal housing are the least likely to have standard employment contracts and leases, even though they are often the people who need public services most.

How Much Further Must the Residence Permit Go?

In 2024, the State Council issued a five-year action plan for new urbanization. It called for closer integration between residence permits and national identity cards, with basic public services supplied by the place of habitual residence and gradually extended to everyone who actually lives there. In May 2026, the State Council issued its Opinions on Providing Basic Public Services at the Place of Habitual Residence. The document identified education for migrant children, public rental housing, enrollment in social insurance at the place of employment, health insurance at the place of habitual residence, employment services, and social assistance as priorities. It also called for electronic residence permits, more services available directly upon presentation of the permit, mutual recognition of permits across regions, and conversion of residence periods between jurisdictions.

The journey is not complete. Because local fiscal pressures are real, scarce public resources such as school places, subsidized housing, health insurance, and social assistance still remain primarily accessible through hukou. Whenever public resources are tight, decisions about reasonable eligibility thresholds—and about how to prevent a paper requirement from excluding people who genuinely live in a place—will continue to generate new legal disputes.

Yet looking back over more than four decades, the direction of change is clear.

In the 1980s, when cities confronted the sudden arrival of a vast migrant population, their first responses were registration, inspection, and the maintenance of order. Today, the policy debate is increasingly centered on a different question: can a person who lacks a local hukou but has lived in a city for years enjoy the same public services as a registered resident?

Key Institutional Milestones

• 1958, Household Registration Regulations: Established a unified national household-registration system; Article 15 required temporary-residence registration in cities.
• 1983, Shenzhen temporary-residence permit rules: An early effort to turn the administration of temporary residents into a permit system.
• 1985, Ministry of Public Security’s Interim Provisions on the Administration of the Temporary Urban Population: Extended the temporary-residence permit beyond local experimentation.
• 1995, Ministry of Public Security’s Measures for the Application for Temporary Residence Permits: Established uniform rules on who had to apply, document inspections, employment restrictions, and legal liability.
• 2002–2008, local residence-permit experiments: Shanghai, Shenzhen, and other cities gradually connected permits with education, social insurance, employment, and other services.
• 2014, State Council opinions on household-registration reform: Called for full implementation of the residence-permit system and for basic public services to cover permanent residents.
• 2015, Interim Regulations on Residence Permits: Established a national residence-permit system, effective January 1, 2016.
• 2018, Ministry of Public Security Order No. 148: Formally repealed the Measures for the Application for Temporary Residence Permits.
• 2026, opinions on basic public services at the place of habitual residence: Further promoted public services that move with people and expanded electronic permits, regional mutual recognition, and related functions.

This article is a companion to Episode 15 of Reasoned Talk. If you have not heard the episode, the full program explains how Sun Zhigang was wrongly taken into custody and how a tragedy helped bring the custody-and-repatriation system to an end. You are welcome to follow the WeChat public account “议正言辞” and to share your own memories of temporary residence permits and residence permits in the comments.

This is the transcript of episode 15 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

At ten o’clock on the evening of March 17, 2003, twenty-seven-year-old Sun Zhigang left the place where he was staying and set out for a nearby internet café. Sun was from Huanggang, Hubei. Two years earlier, he had graduated from Wuhan Institute of Science and Technology, now Wuhan Textile University. Less than a month before, on February 24, the Daqi Garment Company in Guangzhou had hired him. He moved from Wuhan to Guangzhou, shared a rented room with friends, and settled into the ordinary routine of a young office worker.

On his way to the internet café, police stopped Sun and asked to see identification. He had been in Guangzhou for only a little over twenty days and had not yet obtained a temporary-residence permit. He did have a national identity card, but happened not to be carrying it that evening. Because officers could not verify his identity on the spot, they took him to the nearby Huangcun Street Police Station. Roughly an hour later, Sun called the friend with whom he lived and asked him to bring the identity card and some money.

The friend arrived with another colleague close to midnight. They delivered the identification, but could not take Sun home. The next day, he was transferred to the Guangzhou Custody-and-Repatriation Transit Station. One day later, he was sent to a medical center for people held under the system. At noon on March 20, Sun died there under suspicious circumstances.

Less than three days passed between his arrival at the police station on March 17 and his death in custody on March 20. News organizations pursued the story and it soon reverberated across the country. It became known as the Sun Zhigang case. The case triggered an intense debate over whether an administrative regulation could violate the Constitution, and legal scholars jointly petitioned the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress to begin constitutional review. Exactly three months after Sun’s death, the State Council promulgated a new regulation and announced that the custody-and-repatriation system, then twenty-one years old, would be abolished on August 1.

How could a criminal case arising from wrongful detention acquire such force? The answer begins on March 17, 2003, with the phone call Sun made to his friend.

Wrongful Detention and Death in the Medical Center

After Sun arrived at the Huangcun Street Police Station, staff recorded basic information about him. The registration form later made public classified him as a person with “three noes”: no fixed residence, no means of support, and no valid identification. A station supervisor signed the form and approved Sun for custody and repatriation.

The stated basis was the Guangdong Provincial Regulations on Custody and Repatriation. Under article 9, paragraph 6, a person who had “no lawful identification, no normal residence, and no legitimate means of support, and who was living on the streets” was subject to custody. Sun, however, had both an identity card and a stable place to live. His employer could prove that he had worked there as a graphic designer since February 24. He bore virtually no resemblance to the supposed category of a person with “three noes.” His only irregularity was the absence of a Guangzhou temporary-residence permit. As the Guangdong legislature’s legal-affairs body later explained, that omission alone was not enough to justify custody. Even before reaching the later constitutional controversy, the handling of Sun’s case was deeply problematic under Guangdong’s own rules at the time.

On March 18, Sun was taken to the Guangzhou Custody-and-Repatriation Transit Station. He called his friend from inside. The friend later remembered that Sun was “stammering a little, speaking very quickly, and seemed extremely frightened.” The friend contacted the owner of Sun’s company. A colleague first tried to secure Sun’s release but was told that the paperwork was incomplete. Once the documents were assembled, the owner went to the transit station himself. It was nearly closing time, however, and staff told him to return the following day.

When the friend called the transit station on March 19, he learned that Sun had already been transferred again. Nursing records disclosed later showed that Sun had been delivered to the Guangzhou Medical Center for Persons in Custody at about 11:30 p.m. the previous night. The “medical center” was in fact the Jiangcun inpatient unit of the Guangzhou Psychiatric Hospital. Under the ordinary custody-and-repatriation process, the transit station should have been followed by repatriation to Sun’s home in Huanggang, Hubei. For reasons outside the normal process, however, he was sent to the hospital before reaching that stage.

His friends and colleagues tried to see him, only to be refused once more. This time they were told that only a family member could visit him in the hospital. At noon on March 20, the friend called again. The hospital said that Sun was dead. Its first explanation was a sudden heart attack. The nursing record gave the time of death as 10:25 that morning, but the record itself raised questions. Sun had been conscious when admitted and no abnormality was recorded. For a long period afterward, the notes merely said that he was “sleeping.” Only at 10 a.m. on March 20 did a nurse find him pale, silent, motionless, breathing weakly, and with no measurable blood pressure. A doctor attempted resuscitation and stopped treatment at 10:25.

For Sun’s family back in Hubei, the news was devastating. They immediately traveled to Guangzhou. His parents could not accept the hospital’s “heart attack” explanation. Instead of allowing an immediate cremation, they demanded an autopsy. The Forensic Identification Center at Sun Yat-sen University examined Sun’s body on April 3. Its opinion, issued on April 18, concluded that extensive soft-tissue injuries had caused fatal traumatic shock.

The autopsy documented massive subcutaneous bleeding around the waist and back, while other vital organs showed no obvious disease. Sun had not died of a sudden heart attack. He had been beaten to death. What the hospital chart described as prolonged “sleep” may in fact have been the manifestation of traumatic shock.

The court later found that Sun was deeply angered by being taken to a police station without cause and then placed in custody and repatriation. After arriving at the hospital, he protested loudly and repeatedly, provoking staff member Qiao Yanqin. On the night of March 19, Qiao instructed other detainees to beat him. Sun was assaulted twice before dawn on March 20 and died from traumatic shock later that morning.

On April 25, one week after the autopsy result, Southern Metropolis Daily published a lengthy investigation titled “The Death of Detainee Sun Zhigang.” The Beijing Youth Daily, People’s Daily Online, Xinhua, and other outlets quickly republished or followed the story. Their reporting and commentary turned the case into a national public event.

The SARS epidemic then dominated national news. Even so, the Sun Zhigang case spread rapidly. Large numbers of people who had left their hometowns to study or work in cities recognized themselves in his experience. A university graduate only two years out of school, who met none of the conditions for custody, had been passed from one institution to the next and died in agony within three days. The incident had become more than an ordinary criminal case. Public anger increasingly focused on the custody-and-repatriation system itself.

How Relief Became Control

What kind of system was custody and repatriation?

Its origins in China dated to 1951. A product of the planned economy, it began as a welfare measure intended to assist people arriving in cities without shelter. After reform and opening, economic development brought much greater movement across regions and more people living on urban streets. In May 1982, the State Council issued the Measures for the Custody and Repatriation of Urban Vagrants and Beggars. From that point, relief was no longer the system’s only objective. Article 1 stated:

These Measures are formulated to provide relief, education, and placement for urban vagrants and beggars, and to preserve urban public order and social stability.

The phrase “preserve urban public order and social stability” reveals an emerging public-security function. As population mobility accelerated and officials confronted worsening public-order concerns without a better management tool, that function grew stronger. The system became more coercive as a result. Article 6 required people in custody to “submit to” custody and repatriation. Although the institution retained the language of welfare, its supposed beneficiaries had no right to decline the assistance. Relief and control were already in tension; more control necessarily meant less relief.

The 1982 Measures still applied only to “urban vagrants and beggars.” In 1991, however, the State Council issued an Opinion on Reforming Custody and Repatriation. It formally introduced the category of people with “three noes”—no lawful documents, no fixed residence, and no stable income—and expanded the system’s reach. Custody and repatriation became a device for removing migrants from cities, and its public-order purpose grew more explicit. By then, the original relief function had largely receded.

Some scholars describe this process as institutional “alienation”: a system that began as social welfare gradually changed function through the combined effects of the urban-rural divide, administrative power without adequate supervision, and poorly trained enforcement personnel.

The pattern was clear in local practice. The Guangdong Provincial Regulations on Custody and Repatriation, issued by the provincial legislature in 2002 and invoked in Sun’s detention, expressly made people with “three noes” a target of custody. Sun did not fit that description; his detention resulted from an error by frontline authorities. Yet public anger extended beyond a single enforcement mistake to the institution that had been transformed in this way.

By 2003, the system had operated for twenty-one years and dissatisfaction had accumulated for a long time. The most direct and severe criticism was that the system may have been constitutionally defective.

Statutory Reservation and Two Review Proposals

Consider the law then in force.

Article 37 of the 1982 Constitution provides that “the personal freedom of citizens of the People’s Republic of China shall not be violated” and that no citizen may be arrested except with the approval or decision of a people’s procuratorate or the decision of a people’s court, followed by execution by a public-security organ. Article 9 of the 1996 Administrative Penalties Law provided that an administrative penalty restricting personal liberty could be created only by a statute. Article 8 of the 2000 Legislation Law provided that coercive measures and punishments restricting personal liberty could be governed only by statutes.

“Statute” here meant a law enacted by the National People’s Congress or its Standing Committee. If custody and repatriation was treated as an administrative penalty, it directly confronted the reservation in the Administrative Penalties Law. Even without that classification, it remained a coercive measure restricting liberty and therefore fell within the Legislation Law’s statutory reservation. By 2003, the State Council’s 1982 Measures faced a serious conflict with the Constitution, the Administrative Penalties Law, and the Legislation Law.

On May 14, twenty days after the Southern Metropolis Daily investigation, three Peking University–educated doctors of law submitted a review proposal to the NPC Standing Committee. Citing articles 88 and 90 of the Legislation Law, they recommended review of the State Council’s 1982 Measures. Five other scholars filed a second proposal on May 23. Relying on article 71 of the Constitution, they asked the Standing Committee to establish a special inquiry into the Sun Zhigang case and the custody-and-repatriation system.

The State Council had issued the Measures on May 12, 1982, while the current Constitution was not promulgated until December 4 of that year. The present Constitution therefore did not yet exist when the Measures appeared. The legal environment changed profoundly afterward. The Administrative Penalties Law in 1996 and the Legislation Law in 2000 imposed stricter requirements on the legal source of authority to restrict personal liberty. The old Measures had become increasingly difficult to reconcile with the new framework.

From Custody and Repatriation to Social Assistance

By the time of the Sun Zhigang case, the system was clearly nearing its end. As national debate intensified, Wu Bangguo, then chair of the NPC Standing Committee, forwarded relevant materials to Premier Wen Jiabao on June 4 with a written work suggestion. He proposed that the responsible State Council departments study the matter and that the NPC Legislative Affairs Commission could participate. On June 18, the State Council executive meeting adopted the new Measures for Assisting Vagrants and Beggars with No Means of Support in Cities. Wen signed State Council Order No. 381 on June 20, promulgating the new Measures and setting August 1 as their effective date. The 1982 custody-and-repatriation rules were abolished on that same date. After more than two decades, custody and repatriation gave way to a new system of social assistance.

Article 11 of the new Measures provides:

An assistance station shall advise a recipient to return to the recipient’s residence or work unit and may not restrict the recipient from leaving the station. If an address has been ascertained, the station shall promptly notify the recipient’s relatives or work unit to take the recipient home. If the recipient is homeless, the people’s government of the place of household registration shall make proper arrangements.

The new regime abandoned coercive custody and returned to the gentler objective of social relief.

It also reassigned the role of the police. When officers encountered vagrants or beggars, their principal responsibility was to inform and guide them toward assistance stations. Government budgets would fund assistance. Stations could not charge recipients, relatives, or work units, nor could they organize recipients to perform productive labor. The Measures expressly prohibited staff from confining or covertly confining, beating, physically punishing, or abusing recipients.

The State Council thus ended a potentially unconstitutional system by repealing the old regulation and replacing it with a new one. Once the promulgating authority itself had terminated the system, further formal review was no longer practically necessary. The preceding episode discussed the end of American vagrancy law. In 1972, the U.S. Supreme Court used judicial review to invalidate Jacksonville’s vagrancy ordinance, affecting the entire tradition of old-style vagrancy law. That authority had developed over more than a century: in deciding a case, the Supreme Court could review the constitutionality of the legal provision before it. China addressed a related problem through a gentler path that more closely fit its own institutional setting.

Returning to the management of people living on the streets, China and the United States differ enormously in political institutions and legal tradition. Yet their governments face a similar underlying tension. Local authorities need some capacity to maintain public order, but that management can itself violate individual rights. The Sun Zhigang case was an extreme example. Institutional defects, insufficiently supervised administrative power, and poorly trained personnel converged during an era of rapid economic growth to produce an irreversible tragedy.

Criminal Trials and Accountability

On June 5, 2003, the Guangzhou Intermediate People’s Court publicly tried the case arising from Sun Zhigang’s fatal beating. Twelve defendants stood trial: four hospital orderlies and eight other people in custody. The court found that orderly Qiao Yanqin, angered by Sun’s loud pleas for help, arranged to move him to another ward and instructed Li Haiying and other detainees there to beat him. Li then organized and directed the assault. Another orderly, Lü Erpeng, not only participated in the planning but struck Sun with a plastic baton after Sun reported the first beating. Before dawn on March 20, Sun was assaulted twice and died from extensive soft-tissue injury and traumatic shock.

Why did the court convict the defendants of intentional injury rather than intentional homicide? Intentional homicide requires an intent to deprive another person of life. The court found that the defendants directly intended to beat and injure Sun, while death was the grave consequence of that assault. Under the Criminal Law, intentional injury causing death may likewise be punished by at least ten years’ imprisonment, life imprisonment, or death.

The court announced its first-instance judgment on June 9. Qiao Yanqin was sentenced to immediate execution and deprivation of political rights for life. Li Haiying received a death sentence with a two-year reprieve. The other defendants received terms ranging from three to fifteen years, or life imprisonment. All twelve appealed. On June 27, the Guangdong High People’s Court rejected the appeals and affirmed the judgments. Acting under authority delegated by the Supreme People’s Court, it approved Qiao’s death sentence. She was executed that day.

Six other responsible personnel were prosecuted separately for dereliction of duty. They included an officer from the Huangcun Street Police Station, the deputy director of the Jiangcun inpatient unit of the Guangzhou Psychiatric Hospital, and the head of the medical center. On June 9, the Tianhe and Baiyun district courts found that the six defendants’ failures had caused Sun’s wrongful custody and exposed him to the fatal abuse. Each received a sentence of two to three years. Five appealed. On June 27, the Guangzhou Intermediate People’s Court rejected the appeals and affirmed the judgments.

Beyond the criminal cases, twenty-three people received Party or administrative discipline. They ranged from responsible leaders in the Guangzhou public-security, health, and civil-affairs departments to personnel at the Tianhe Public Security Sub-bureau, Huangcun Street Police Station, transit station, and medical center. Two officers who processed Sun’s case were expelled from the Party and dismissed from public employment. The head and deputy head of the police station were removed from their positions. Other managers received warnings, demerits, major demerits, or removal.

Accountability therefore operated on three levels. Those who organized or carried out the beatings were convicted of intentional injury. Those whose serious failures in custody, medical care, and supervision enabled the death were convicted of dereliction of duty. Other people with managerial or leadership responsibility received Party or administrative discipline.

“Assistance Bridge,” “Reform Pavilion,” and a Family

Before the criminal trial, the special case team, acting on behalf of the responsible departments, signed a state-compensation agreement with Sun’s family. Most of the people who directly participated in the beatings had little money, making a damages award difficult to collect, so the family abandoned a civil claim attached to the criminal case. Their lawyer did not disclose the amount in the agreement. Sun’s father, Sun Lusong, later told an interviewer that the Guangzhou authorities paid a total of 500,000 yuan.

Sun Lusong attended the first-instance judgment in Guangzhou on June 9. He had spent more than eighty days there seeking the truth about his son’s death. After the judgment, he took Sun Zhigang home to Huanggang, Hubei, and buried him in Xingfu Village, Taodian Township, less than one hundred meters from the primary school Sun had attended.

The father designed the gravesite himself. A small “Assistance Bridge” stands before the grave and a “Reform Pavilion” behind it. On either side are two sweet-osmanthus trees that he transplanted from the old family home because his son had loved their blossoms. The gravestone records the entire path from wrongful custody and forensic identification to media reporting and repeal of the old system. Its final inscription reads: “Sun Zhigang—a man worth remembering, who advanced China’s rule of law at the cost of his life.”

For years after the case, migrant workers who had once been held under custody and repatriation found the family’s phone number and called Sun’s parents to express their sympathy. A decade later, Sun Lusong still told reporters that he hoped his son’s case would help preserve institutions that benefited ordinary people and abolish those that harmed them. The family gradually withdrew from public view and returned to daily life.

Recording and Review After Sun Zhigang

The broader effect of the Sun Zhigang case did not end with the repeal of custody and repatriation.

Amendments to the Legislation Law in 2015 and 2023 made the relevant procedures clearer. Article 11 of the current law still expressly reserves restrictions on personal liberty to statutes. Article 12 goes further: even when the National People’s Congress or its Standing Committee authorizes the State Council to legislate provisionally, the authorization may not extend to measures restricting personal liberty. The line of authority implicated by the Sun Zhigang case remains written into law.

The current Legislation Law also regulates constitutional and legality review in greater detail. In 2019, the NPC website opened an online portal for review proposals, removing the need to submit by fax as the three legal scholars had done. After receiving a proposal, an NPC Standing Committee working body conducts an initial examination. If a possible constitutional or legal defect appears, the matter can proceed to further review. The reviewing body may issue a written opinion to the promulgating authority, which has two months to say whether it will amend or repeal the rule. If it refuses to correct the problem, the reviewing institutions may submit a motion or recommendation for annulment to the Council of Chairpersons, which decides whether to place the matter before the NPC Standing Committee. Once review concludes, the citizen or organization that made the proposal is to receive feedback.

In practice, most issues are first discussed between the reviewing body and the promulgating authority, after which the latter amends or repeals the rule itself. Formal annulment remains the last resort. The pattern resembles the State Council’s self-correction in the Sun Zhigang case, but today’s process is more proceduralized and transparent than it was in 2003.

In 2025, the NPC Standing Committee received 6,705 review proposals from citizens and organizations: 1,420 by post and 5,285 online. One proposal challenged local rules requiring a person registering a motorized wheelchair to hold permanent household registration in that city. The Legislative Affairs Commission regarded the requirement as unnecessary differential treatment. It issued a review opinion to the authorities responsible for the local legislation and referred the related local-government rules to the bodies responsible for supervising them.

The example echoes the Sun Zhigang case in a subtle way. Both involved migration and household-registration controls. The difference is that citizens today need not wait for a death before bringing a problem into the recording-and-review process. A local rule that unreasonably restricts rights can be reexamined and changed because of a proposal submitted online.

Yet the story should not romanticize Sun’s death. He did not choose to sacrifice himself for legal reform. On the night of March 17, 2003, he simply wanted to use an internet café after work. The case ultimately received an institutional response, but Sun’s life still ended at twenty-seven.

Courts can punish perpetrators after a tragedy. Governments can abolish a defective system. The Legislation Law can continue to improve its procedures of supervision. The more important purpose of the rule of law, however, is to use clear limits on power and binding procedures to prevent such errors before they happen. That is the final lesson of the Sun Zhigang case: law must do its work before tragedy occurs.

Key Figures

• Sun Zhigang — A young man from Hubei, born in 1976, who had recently begun work in Guangzhou. Because he was not carrying his identity card and had not yet obtained a temporary-residence permit, he was wrongly placed in custody and died three days later. He was unrelated to the government official of the same name.
• Qiao Yanqin — An orderly at the Guangzhou Medical Center for Persons in Custody. The court found that, angered by Sun’s shouting, she instructed other detainees to beat him. She was sentenced to immediate execution, the judgment was affirmed and approved on appeal, and she was executed on June 27, 2003.
• Wu Bangguo — Then chair of the NPC Standing Committee. The work suggestion made public later shows that the Standing Committee’s leadership was monitoring the case internally and transmitting the matter to the State Council; it did not amount to a formal constitutional judgment by the Standing Committee.
• Wen Jiabao — Then premier of the State Council. He signed State Council Order No. 381 on June 20, 2003, promulgating the new Assistance Measures. The regulation was adopted by the State Council executive meeting and issued as a State Council order; the State Council, rather than the premier personally, was the lawmaking authority.

Key Concepts

• Statutory reservation — Matters including restrictions on personal liberty must be prescribed by statutes enacted by the National People’s Congress or its Standing Committee; an administrative regulation of the State Council cannot create them on its own. The principal provisions in 2003 were article 8, item 5, and article 9 of the Legislation Law then in force.
• Review requirement and review proposal — Article 90 of the 2000 Legislation Law called a formal submission by specified state bodies a “requirement” and a submission by other bodies, organizations, or citizens a “proposal.” The submission by the three legal scholars belonged to the latter category.
• Recording and review — The system through which competent authorities supervise administrative regulations, local legislation, and other norms for constitutional and legal defects.
• Administrative self-correction — The State Council, which had promulgated the old Measures, used a new administrative regulation to abolish them directly.

Key Laws and Legal Documents

• Measures for the Custody and Repatriation of Urban Vagrants and Beggars (State Council; issued May 12, 1982; repealed August 1, 2003) — Article 1 combined relief and public-order purposes, while article 6 required submission to custody and repatriation, directly expressing the coercive character of the old system.
• Article 37 of the Constitution of the People’s Republic of China — Protects citizens’ personal liberty and supplied the fundamental-rights basis cited in the three scholars’ proposal.
• Administrative Penalties Law of the People’s Republic of China (1996 text, articles 9 and 10) — Article 9 reserved the creation of administrative penalties restricting liberty to statutes, and article 10 barred administrative regulations from creating such penalties. This line of argument applies directly only if custody and repatriation is first classified as an administrative penalty.
• Legislation Law of the People’s Republic of China (2000 text, articles 8, 9, 88, and 90) — Governed statutory reservation for measures restricting liberty, prohibited provisional State Council legislation on those matters, granted the NPC Standing Committee annulment power, and established procedures for review requirements and proposals. The current article numbers have changed and should not be used to describe conduct in 2003.
• Measures for Assisting Vagrants and Beggars with No Means of Support in Cities (State Council Order No. 381; promulgated June 20, 2003; effective August 1) — Defined the new regime as temporary social assistance, guaranteed public funding, prohibited fees and productive labor, barred restrictions on departure, and repealed the old Measures in article 18.

Related Episodes

• 13 China’s “First Constitutional Case”: Qi Yuling’s Stolen Right to Education
• 14 Could Being Jobless Be a Crime? America’s Constitutional Reckoning with Vagrancy Laws

He was living in a van. Each time the police arrived, they cited him for “camping within the city limits.” He would drive away, wait for the officers to leave, and then return to the same place to sleep. A police report noted that Lee “continues to disregard the city ordinance” and returns to the van as soon as the police leave. The day shift, it added, should check the van again and prepare to have it towed.

Justice Sonia Sotomayor included this episode in her dissent in City of Grants Pass v. Johnson. It reads like an absurd cycle: the police successfully stopped Lee from sleeping outside six times, yet none of those interventions gave a person without housing anywhere to live. He simply left for a while, then returned in the darkness when he needed to sleep again.

The problem began with a blanket.

In Grants Pass, Oregon, a person may be “camping” under the city code if they place a blanket, sleeping bag, or other bedding in a public place for the purpose of maintaining a temporary place to live. An initial violation can bring a fine. Repeated citations can result in a thirty-day exclusion from city parks. Violating an exclusion order may then constitute criminal trespass, punishable by as much as thirty days in jail and a $1,250 fine.

In Episode 14 of Reasoned Talk, we began with Papachristou v. City of Jacksonville and explained why the vagueness of traditional vagrancy laws ultimately drove them from the statute books. But if the law no longer punishes a “vagrant” directly and instead punishes the act of sleeping on the street, has it really completed the transition from status to conduct?

In 2024, Grants Pass gave local governments a fairly permissive answer. One year later, President Donald Trump signed Executive Order 14321, translating that answer into a policy agenda encompassing federal grants, civil commitment, and housing programs.

Together, these two legal documents raise a more difficult question: when a person has nowhere else to go, does punishing them for sleeping in public regulate conduct, or does it drive a particular class of people away?

From “Homeless Person” to “Person Using Bedding”

Grants Pass is a small city in the American West with a population of roughly 38,000. At the time of the litigation, an estimated 600 people there were experiencing homelessness. The city had no public homeless shelter. The only organization offering beds was a religious rescue mission that required residents to abstain from smoking, attend religious services, and follow a range of rules governing work and daily life. For some people with disabilities, those unable to work, and those unwilling to accept the religious requirements, its beds were not available in practice.

The city’s camping ordinances, however, covered nearly every kind of public space. They prohibited sleeping on streets, sidewalks, and alleyways; setting up a “campsite” on public property; and camping or parking overnight in city parks. The two class representatives, Gloria Johnson and John Logan, usually slept in their vehicles. If they used bedding and treated a vehicle as a temporary place to live, they too could fall within the prohibition.

Their lawsuit relied on the rule adopted by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit in Martin v. City of Boise in 2018. That decision held that when the number of people experiencing homelessness in a city exceeds the number of practically available shelter beds, the government may not prohibit “involuntarily homeless” people from sleeping in public. A person must sleep somewhere. If no indoor space is available, sleeping outside is not a choice that can simply be abandoned.

The federal district court followed that reasoning. It found that the homeless population in Grants Pass exceeded the number of practically available shelter beds and enjoined the city from enforcing its camping ordinances against those individuals. The Ninth Circuit affirmed. For many cities in the American West, this imposed a firm limit on enforcement: when the number of people experiencing homelessness exceeded the available shelter beds, the government could not prohibit those people from sleeping outside without potentially violating the Eighth Amendment.

Grants Pass appealed to the Supreme Court. On June 28, 2024, the Court reversed by a vote of 6–3.

The central dispute was not whether tents affected the environment, or whether the city should build more shelters. It concerned a seemingly abstract legal classification: did the ordinances punish the status of homelessness, or the conduct of camping on public property?

“Status” Cannot Be a Crime, but “Conduct” Can

In Robinson v. California in 1962, the Supreme Court confirmed that the state cannot punish a person merely for possessing a particular status or condition. California had made the condition of narcotics addiction itself a crime. The Court held that even one day in prison could not be imposed merely because a person had an illness or existed in a particular condition; doing so would amount to “cruel and unusual punishment” prohibited by the Eighth Amendment.

Six years later, however, Powell v. Texas drew a fine line between status and conduct. Powell had alcohol dependence, but he was not convicted for the status of being an alcoholic. He was punished for the act of being intoxicated in public.

The majority in Grants Pass followed that distinction. Justice Neil Gorsuch wrote that the ordinances applied to everyone on their face. A person without housing, a backpacker passing through town, or a student camping on the lawn of a municipal building in protest could all violate the same rule by camping in public. The law did not declare that “being homeless is a crime.” It prohibited an act with a conduct element.

The majority also emphasized that the Eighth Amendment’s Cruel and Unusual Punishments Clause primarily regulates the punishments that may be imposed after conviction. It is not a general instrument for reviewing what conduct a government may define as criminal. Other constitutional protections—including freedom of speech, equal protection, and due process—may constrain the state’s power to criminalize conduct. But on the specific question before the Court, the Eighth Amendment did not bar a generally applicable public-camping prohibition.

Sotomayor, writing for the three dissenters, saw the matter very differently. “Sleep is a biological necessity, not a crime,” she argued. For someone with a home, sleeping in a park may be avoidable: they can go home or stay in a hotel. For someone with no indoor place to go, however, refusing to sleep anywhere would require staying awake forever. Although the words “homeless person” did not appear in the ordinances, the conduct they prohibited was inseparable from the condition of having no home.

That was the real disagreement between the majority and the dissent. Reading the text of the ordinance, the majority treated “a person experiencing homelessness” and “a person camping in public” as separate categories. Looking at the conditions in which the law operated, the dissent saw status and conduct as two sides of the same coin whenever a person had no alternative. The majority focused on the legal text itself; the dissent focused on the law’s social effect.

The Supreme Court Did Not Give Cities a Master Key

It is tempting to summarize Grants Pass as holding that “the Supreme Court allows cities to punish sleeping outside.” That is not accurate.

First, the Court did not declare that public sleeping is a crime. Whether to enact a camping ban, where it should apply, whether to impose fines, and whether to provide designated camping areas remain matters for state and local decision-making. The Court held only that the Eighth Amendment itself does not prohibit the enforcement of ordinary camping restrictions.

Second, the Court reviewed only the claim under the Cruel and Unusual Punishments Clause. It did not decide whether the wording of the Grants Pass ordinances was so vague that it violated due process, or whether the city engaged in selective enforcement. Those practices could still violate other constitutional provisions; they simply fell outside the scope of the case.

The Court therefore preserved generally applicable camping prohibitions, but it did not give local governments unrestricted power to remove people experiencing homelessness. Cities must still ensure that their ordinances are sufficiently clear and that enforcement is not selective—for example, by overlooking a backpacker while targeting a person without housing for the same conduct. A mistake at either stage may still produce a constitutional violation. Grants Pass cleared away an Eighth Amendment obstacle to local enforcement against homelessness, but it did not hand cities a master key.

Executive Order 14321: Changing the Flow of Money Instead of Making Arrests

On July 24, 2025, Trump signed Executive Order 14321, titled Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets. The order cited a 2024 point-in-time count showing that 274,000 people were sleeping on streets, in parks, and in other places not meant for habitation—the highest number on record. It then placed “endemic vagrancy” alongside disorderly behavior, sudden confrontations, and violent attacks, and described large numbers of people experiencing homelessness as affected by drugs and mental illness. The order’s central aim was to shift the policy emphasis from “how to provide housing” to “how to restore public order.” It used three policy tools to do so.

The first was federal funding. Rules governing urban camping, loitering, and squatting are principally enacted by state and local governments. A president cannot sign an executive order and directly command every local police department in the country to arrest people sleeping outside. Executive Order 14321 took a different route. It instructed the Departments of Justice, Health and Human Services, Housing and Urban Development, and Transportation to review their discretionary grant programs and consider prioritizing states and municipalities that actively address open drug use, urban camping, loitering, and squatting. It also directed the Justice Department, within the limits of existing law, to make funding available for encampment removals where public safety is at risk and local resources are inadequate. This is not a direct command, but it can have a tangible effect. A local government remains free not to pursue those policies, yet that choice may affect its position when competing for federal grants.

The second tool was civil commitment. The order directed the Departments of Justice and Health and Human Services to promote more flexible standards for involuntary commitment, institutional treatment, and step-down care. The target population included people with serious mental illness who may endanger themselves or others, as well as those living on the street who cannot care for themselves. Civil commitment is not a criminal conviction and is usually justified in the language of treatment and protection, but it still deprives a person of liberty. In O’Connor v. Donaldson, the Supreme Court made clear that the government cannot confine a person for a long period merely because that person has a mental illness. If the person is not dangerous and can live safely alone or with help from family or friends, the state has no authority to institutionalize them involuntarily. The executive order therefore cannot transform homelessness itself into a sufficient reason for hospitalization. Officials must still confront questions such as who presents a real danger, who truly cannot care for themselves, what evidence and procedures commitment requires, and whether supportive community alternatives exist outside an institution.

The third tool was a change in the basic logic of federal homelessness programs. For more than a decade, federal policy had broadly embraced a Housing First model. Its premise is that a person should first obtain stable housing, without sobriety, drug treatment, mental-health treatment, or a minimum income serving as a condition of entry. Once housing is stable, programs offer voluntary medical care, addiction treatment, and social support. Executive Order 14321 called for ending support for certain Housing First policies, increasing treatment and service-participation requirements, and directing more resources toward transitional housing and mental-health and addiction treatment. It also allowed housing programs, where legally permissible, to collect health information and share it with law-enforcement agencies in specified circumstances.

Taken together, the three tools form a coherent policy chain: on the street, camping bans and encampment removals restore order; after people leave the street, treatment, transitional placement, and self-sufficiency requirements replace priority access to permanent housing without preconditions; and for those considered unable to care for themselves or dangerous, civil commitment becomes more readily available. This is far more complex than a simple prohibition on sleeping outside, and it goes well beyond the holding in Grants Pass.

The Judgment Encouraged “Local Experimentation,” but the Order Uses Federal Money to Set a Common Direction

The Grants Pass majority repeatedly emphasized that state and local governments should be allowed to experiment with policies for addressing homelessness. Courts should not derive a single national formula for counting shelter beds from the Eighth Amendment and then place every city’s shelter capacity under continuing federal judicial supervision. From the perspective of federalism, that reasoning is understandable. New York, Los Angeles, and a small Oregon city plainly face different conditions. Local governments must balance the competing needs of people sleeping outside, nearby residents, businesses, children, and people with disabilities in public spaces. A court can hardly govern the entire country through one rule.

Executive Order 14321, however, introduced a subtle reversal. The Supreme Court had just removed a judicial constraint in the name of respecting local experimentation. The federal executive branch then began using grant priorities to encourage jurisdictions across the country to move in the same direction: greater camping enforcement, expanded civil commitment, and treatment-first policy.

The effects were concrete. In its grant documents, the Department of Housing and Urban Development expressly stated that Grants Pass had upheld the authority of local governments to prohibit public camping, and it urged local jurisdictions to work with law enforcement to reduce public camping and open drug use. In 2026, HUD announced approximately $4.04 billion in a new round of Continuum of Care funding, proposing to prioritize $1.3 billion for transitional housing and supportive services in pursuit of the goals emphasized in Executive Order 14321.

Yet a president’s ability to set a policy direction does not mean that an executive agency may bypass Congress and freely rewrite the lawful purposes and allocation procedures governing federal grants.

On June 29, 2026, the federal district court in Rhode Island vacated two related funding notices that HUD had issued in 2025. The court concluded that the department had abruptly changed its longstanding Housing First and grant-renewal policies without adequately explaining its decision or accounting for the reliance interests of affected parties. HUD had also missed the publication deadline imposed by law. Its actions were therefore “arbitrary and capricious” under the Administrative Procedure Act and unlawful.

The judgment did not invalidate Executive Order 14321 as a whole. It addressed a more basic question of administrative law: when a government agency writes the rules governing billions of dollars in grants, it must still obey the statutes enacted by Congress and follow legally required decision-making procedures. In 2026, HUD issued another funding plan, and a group of states and service providers again filed suit. As of this writing, the new round of litigation remains pending.

The Real Question

People experiencing homelessness are not inherently people with mental illness, drug users, or threats to public safety. At the same time, outdoor encampments can create genuine risks involving fire, sanitation, drugs, and public access. Describing every attempt to preserve order as persecution of the vulnerable fails to answer the legitimate concerns of city residents. But placing everyone who sleeps outside within a narrative of “crime and disorder” does nothing to resolve why people lose housing or how they can actually leave the street.

Traditional vagrancy laws addressed this growing problem by declaring that “a certain kind of person is guilty.” Modern laws rarely speak so directly. They prefer to prohibit particular forms of disorderly conduct. As a matter of legal language, that is progress. Yet progress in legal language does not automatically produce progress in the world. After receiving a citation, a person may simply move from one block to another. After an encampment is cleared, the people who lived there must still find another place to lie down. Civil commitment can help some people who genuinely need treatment, but under some conditions it may also turn “treatment” into another form of prolonged confinement.

In 1972, Papachristou told the police not to decide first that someone “looks suspicious” and then search a vague law for a charge. More than half a century later, Grants Pass allowed cities to punish camping through more precisely defined rules, and Executive Order 14321 pushed federal policy toward order enforcement and institutional treatment. But the oldest question remains: when the state says it is merely managing the street, is it responding to a concrete danger, or is it removing disfavored people from public view?

Key Cases and Concepts

• Robinson v. California — The Supreme Court held that a state may not make the status or condition of narcotics addiction itself a crime. The case is the principal source of the rule against punishing a pure status.
• Powell v. Texas — The Court declined to extend Robinson to public intoxication, making the case an important reference point for the later distinction between status and conduct.
• Martin v. City of Boise — The Ninth Circuit held that when practically available shelter beds are insufficient, a city may not punish involuntarily homeless people for sleeping in public. Grants Pass later rejected that rule.
• City of Grants Pass v. Johnson — By a vote of 6–3, the Supreme Court held that generally applicable public-camping ordinances regulate conduct rather than the status of homelessness and therefore do not violate the Eighth Amendment.
• Executive Order 14321 — Trump’s July 24, 2025 order, Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets, uses federal grants, civil commitment, program conditions, and data policies to promote a homelessness strategy more heavily focused on order, treatment, and self-sufficiency.
• Housing First — An approach that places people experiencing homelessness in stable housing without making sobriety, treatment, or a minimum income a precondition. Supportive services remain available, but participation generally is not a prerequisite to housing.
• Civil commitment — Involuntary treatment or institutional placement outside the criminal-conviction process, generally based on dangerousness, serious mental illness, or inability to care for oneself. It remains constrained by due process and disability-rights law.
• Administrative Procedure Act — The federal statute requiring agencies to act within their lawful authority and to make reasoned, non-arbitrary decisions. It has become an important tool for reviewing measures adopted to implement Executive Order 14321.

This article is further reading for Episode 14 of Reasoned Talk, “Could Being Jobless Be a Crime? America’s Constitutional Reckoning with Vagrancy Laws .” If you have not yet listened to the episode, you can begin there for the story of Papachristou and the way traditional vagrancy laws turned a police officer’s subjective suspicion into arrest and conviction. If you have thoughts of your own, feel free to share them in the comments.

This is the transcript of episode 14 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

Executive Order 14321

On July 24, 2025, President Donald Trump signed Executive Order 14321, titled “Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets.” Shortly before it appeared, the latest official figures had shown a marked rise in homelessness in the United States.

The 2024 count found that roughly 771,000 people were experiencing homelessness nationwide, an increase of about 18 percent from the previous year. Approximately 274,000 of them were sleeping on streets, in parks, or in other places not meant for human habitation. These figures were a snapshot of a single night, not the total number of people who experienced homelessness at any point during the year. Even so, the total was the highest recorded since the count began.

There are many reasons why the number was so high. Rising housing costs and prices, stagnant or falling wages, layoffs, and the lingering effects of the pandemic may all have contributed. The Trump administration’s order, however, connected homelessness and unsheltered living with public disorder, drug use, and mental-health crises. Executive Order 14321 emerged from that framing.

Its central provisions can be reduced to two broad moves. First, it encouraged local governments to enforce restrictions on sleeping outdoors, loitering, and squatting, and instructed federal agencies to consider prioritizing grants for states and cities that did so. Second, it called for civil-commitment and treatment measures for certain people with serious mental illness who posed a danger to themselves or others, or who were living on the streets and unable to care for themselves. Put simply, the administration sought to use federal funding and policy direction to make local governments more aggressive in clearing encampments, enforcing public-order laws, and moving some unsheltered people into treatment or institutional settings.

The order did not itself create a nationwide crime of vagrancy, nor did it directly command local police to arrest everyone sleeping outdoors. Its main instruments were federal grants and policy guidance. Yet section 3 was expressly titled “Fighting Vagrancy on America’s Streets.” A phrase that seemed to belong to a nineteenth-century statute had returned in a twenty-first-century federal policy document.

But the Supreme Court had declared the old style of vagrancy law unconstitutional more than half a century earlier. Why, then, did “vagrancy” again become an object of presidential policy in 2025? Do today’s camping and loitering bans punish identifiable conduct, or do they offer a new way to single out people whom society would rather not see?

Four Young People Charged with “Prowling by Auto”

To understand those questions, we need to return to 1969.

Early one Sunday morning in Jacksonville, Florida, a car traveled along a main city road. Four young people were inside. They had eaten dinner at a nearby restaurant and were driving to a nightclub for the second stop of their evening. The police pulled them over on the way. Officers later explained that the car had briefly stopped near a used-car lot where several break-ins had recently occurred. No burglary took place that night, however, and there was no evidence that the four occupants intended to commit one.

Under the ordinary logic of criminal procedure, suspicion alone does not permit police to arrest someone without probable cause. Jacksonville, however, still enforced a local Vagrancy Ordinance. Anyone whom the police classified as a “vagrant” could be arrested, fined, and jailed. The ordinance defined that status through sweeping categories that included “common night walkers,” “habitual loafers,” and people “wandering or strolling around from place to place without any lawful purpose.” The police classified the four people in the car as “prowling by auto.”

They were far from the ordinance’s only victims. Similar cases were common across the country. Under such laws, an officer who thought someone looked suspicious could select a label from an assortment of vague categories, call that person a vagrant, and make an arrest. The Supreme Court case that became known as Papachristou joined the convictions of eight defendants. Besides the four people in the car, four others had been arrested and convicted on similarly nebulous grounds.

Among them were Jimmy Lee Smith and Milton Henry. Their encounter took place on a cold weekday morning. Smith worked part time in the produce business and as an organizer for a Black political organization. Henry was an eighteen-year-old high-school student. They were waiting downtown for a friend to lend them a car so they could seek work at a produce company. Smith had no coat, so the two stepped inside a dry-cleaning shop to get warm. When the shop asked them to leave, they immediately did so. They then walked back and forth two or three times along a two-block stretch, looking for their friend.

Nearby merchants called the police. Officers found no weapons when they searched the two men, but arrested them anyway. The officers said that Smith and Henry had no identification and that their story seemed suspicious, making them “vagabonds” under the ordinance.

The eight defendants eventually brought their cases to the Supreme Court in Papachristou v. City of Jacksonville. On February 24, 1972, the Court ruled 7–0 that Jacksonville’s Vagrancy Ordinance was unconstitutionally vague. On its face, the case merely invalidated a municipal law. At a deeper level, however, it posed a fundamental question: if the state no longer has to prove harmful conduct and may convict a person on an officer’s subjective impression, how much personal liberty remains?

From the Black Death to the Black Codes

American law grew from English law, so the history of Jacksonville’s ordinance begins in fourteenth-century England.

The Black Death had swept through the country and killed a vast number of agricultural workers. The resulting labor shortage gave surviving workers greater bargaining power. They could demand higher wages or leave their manors to seek better opportunities elsewhere.

Landowners and the Crown moved quickly to contain that change. The Crown issued the Ordinance of Labourers in 1349, and Parliament followed with the Statute of Labourers in 1351. The measures required able-bodied people without other means of support to work on legally prescribed terms, capped wages, and restricted movement in search of higher pay. Refusing to work on those terms or leaving an employer could lead to punishment. Their purpose was not public safety in the modern sense; it was control of the labor market.

From the sixteenth century, Tudor law increasingly divided poor people into two groups. Able-bodied people without recognized work who wandered or begged were marked for punishment; the “deserving poor” were eligible for relief. The law did not simply punish everyone without work. It first classified them: who deserved aid, who had to labor, and who should be penalized.

The Settlement Act of 1662 tied responsibility for poor relief to a person’s place of lawful settlement. If a parish feared that a newcomer who lacked settlement rights would become a financial burden, it could send that person back to the parish where he or she legally belonged. Settlement might be acquired by birth, marriage, long-term employment, or apprenticeship. The system principally allocated local fiscal responsibility, but it also constrained ordinary people’s freedom of movement.

The Vagrancy Act 1824 brought begging and sleeping in the open without a satisfactory explanation into summary criminal proceedings. Vagrancy law began to resemble modern street policing, merging judgments about status, conduct in public, and preventive law enforcement.

North America developed its own vagrancy regimes from this English foundation. After the Civil War ended in 1865, Southern states enacted the Black Codes. Their vagrancy provisions had an explicit racial purpose. Mississippi’s 1865 law, for example, allowed adult freedpeople without “lawful employment or business” to be deemed vagrants and subjected to fines or forced labor. In the postwar South, vagrancy law became one route from slavery into other forms of coerced labor.

From the late nineteenth century through the first half of the twentieth, American codes accumulated labels such as people “without visible means of support,” “common thieves,” “common drunkards,” “habitual loafers,” and those unable to explain their purpose. When police lacked evidence of a specific crime, they could assign a person to one of these categories. Vagrancy law thus combined inchoate offenses, status crimes, and disobedience of police commands. Punishment reached beyond demonstrated harm to encompass whatever dangers an officer imagined might occur.

By the mid-twentieth century, local governments were using such laws to remove people they disfavored. The targets varied by time and place: Black civil-rights organizers, labor organizers, gay men and lesbians, sex workers, antiwar activists, and nonconforming young people could all find themselves within the vagrancy net.

By the 1960s, just before Papachristou, vagrancy laws had long ceased to apply only to people in poverty. The four people arrested in the car included a teacher, college students, a veteran, and people with steady work. What united them was the police power to decide first that someone looked suspicious and then search a broad ordinance for a charge.

FBI figures showed roughly 100,000 vagrancy arrests in each year from 1968 through 1970, in addition to approximately 70,000 to 90,000 arrests categorized as based on “suspicion.” Justice William O. Douglas reproduced the figures in the Court’s opinion to show how common both old-style vagrancy enforcement and arrest on suspicion remained.

How Vagueness Enlarged Police Power

Jacksonville’s ordinance listed more than a dozen categories of supposed vagrants. Among them were:

• “Rogues and vagabonds,” a label with no conduct element and no objective way to determine when a person became a “rogue.”
• “Dissolute persons who go about begging,” in which “dissolute” supplied another highly subjective judgment.
• “Common gamblers” and “common drunkards,” which did not require proof of a particular act of illegal gambling or public intoxication. The law never said how often conduct had to occur before it became “common.”
• “Common night walkers,” even though walking at night is not itself harmful.
• “Habitual loafers,” treating unemployment or leisure as a crime in itself.

These labels carried real criminal penalties. At the time of the defendants’ arrests, a conviction could result in up to ninety days in jail, a $500 fine, or both.

The Supreme Court invalidated the provisions because they were unconstitutionally vague. A criminal law cannot be written so obscurely that ordinary people must guess at its meaning. Jacksonville’s categories had no workable boundaries. What counted as “habitual” or “common”—three times a week, or twice a month? What was a “lawful purpose”? Did only work and shopping qualify, or did a walk at sunset count as well?

More important, a vague law not only leaves the public uncertain; it also fails to constrain law enforcement and thereby expands police power. Douglas wrote that the ordinance cast a broad net and enlarged the police arsenal without giving courts a clearly defined offense to adjudicate. Some innocent actions may sometimes accompany crime. A person lingering on a street may be scouting a robbery, and someone stopping near a used-car lot may be seeking a target. That possibility does not allow the state to convict everyone who does the same thing. Legislatures may define concrete offenses involving attempted theft, trespass, or unlawful weapons. They may not use the possibility of future crime as the true basis for punishing a person under a vagrancy label.

When ordinary activities become subject to criminal punishment, they create a chilling effect. If vague rules reach walking, socializing, or political organizing, people may curtail their freedom to avoid arrest. Douglas linked strolling, walking at night, nonconformity, dissent, and personal independence, and invoked figures including Walt Whitman, Vachel Lindsay, and Henry David Thoreau. They might all have seemed unconventional to their neighbors. Treating them as criminals for that reason would go far beyond the legitimate reach of law.

Some rules can retain a degree of linguistic flexibility. Commercial regulations, for example, often apply to a narrower subject and a more specialized audience, so courts may tolerate greater uncertainty. Criminal law demands more precision. Jacksonville’s ordinance governed the general public and could lead directly to arrest, imprisonment, fines, and stigma. It could not be measured by the same forgiving standard.

The opinion also explained that arrest requires probable cause under the Fourth and Fourteenth Amendments. Ordinarily, the law first defines a crime and police then ask whether concrete facts establish probable cause to believe it occurred. The Vagrancy Ordinance reversed that sequence. Police began with a sense that someone was suspicious and demanded an explanation of identity and purpose. If the answer failed to satisfy them, “no lawful purpose” or “vagabond” became the offense and supplied an apparent basis for arrest. This invitation to arbitrary enforcement was central to the Court’s conclusion that the ordinance violated due process.

A “Freedom to Stroll” and the Power to Stop

The case is sometimes said to have created a constitutional freedom to stroll, as though Americans acquired the right to wander down a street only after Papachristou. That overstates what the Court held.

The opinion focused on the ordinance’s vagueness and did not identify an independent fundamental right called a freedom to stroll. Its language nevertheless carried a strong sense of substantive liberty. Douglas described walking at night, strolling, and wandering as ordinary activities that, although not mentioned word for word in the Constitution, nurture the independent and creative spirit of modern society.

Later decisions did not establish harmless loitering as an independent fundamental right supported by a majority of the Court. In City of Chicago v. Morales in 1999, Justice John Paul Stevens wrote in a four-Justice plurality that the freedom to loiter for innocent purposes fell within the liberty protected by the Fourteenth Amendment’s Due Process Clause. That portion of the opinion did not command five votes; the judgment invalidating the ordinance rested on vagueness. Papachristou therefore did not deliberately create a discrete “freedom to stroll.” Its rule centered on vague law and unconstrained police discretion. In that respect, it resembled Miranda: both decisions limited the authority of frontline police officers.

Critics argued that abolishing the Vagrancy Ordinance would weaken or even eliminate police power to question people on the street. That concern did not follow from the law as it then stood.

Four years before Papachristou, the Court had recognized a lower-intensity form of police intervention in Terry v. Ohio. Even without probable cause to arrest, an officer could conduct a brief investigative stop on the basis of reasonable suspicion grounded in specific, articulable facts. If the officer also reasonably believed that the person was armed and dangerous, the officer could conduct a limited frisk for weapons.

Papachristou did not overrule Terry or deprive police of all power to stop and question. Its change was more precise: police could no longer use a sweeping vagrancy offense to convert suspicion directly into arrest and conviction. When there was only reasonable suspicion, police were limited to a lower-intensity intervention and had to point to facts that made the suspicion reasonable. A formal arrest required probable cause to believe the person had committed a defined crime. That was the decision’s principal significance for criminal procedure.

After the Old Vagrancy Laws

In 1972, the Florida Legislature repealed the old state vagrancy statute that had served as a model for municipal ordinances and enacted a new loitering-and-prowling law. Under the replacement, the state had to prove that the defendant’s conduct was unusual for law-abiding people in its time, place, or manner. The surrounding circumstances also had to warrant justifiable and reasonable alarm or immediate concern for the safety of people or property nearby. The statute offered examples, such as flight upon seeing police, refusal to identify oneself, or an attempt to conceal oneself. Even those circumstances did not automatically permit arrest. Unless flight or another circumstance made inquiry impracticable, an officer first had to give the person an opportunity to explain. In State v. Ecker in 1975, the Florida Supreme Court further construed the law to require concrete circumstances threatening public safety. An officer’s subjective suspicion alone could not establish the offense.

The replacement did not eliminate all room for selective enforcement. Phrases such as conduct “not usual for law-abiding individuals” and “justifiable and reasonable alarm” still involve judgment. Whether such words meaningfully restrain street-level enforcement depends on the officer’s assessment at the scene and on later judicial review.

Several later Supreme Court cases gave the constitutional boundary greater definition.

In Kolender v. Lawson in 1983, a California statute required a person detained on reasonable suspicion for loitering or wandering to provide “credible and reliable” identification. But what made an identification credible and reliable? The statute supplied no standard and left the answer to individual officers. The Court held the law unconstitutionally vague because it vested virtually complete discretion in the police.

In City of Chicago v. Morales in 1999, Chicago’s gang-loitering ordinance allowed an officer who reasonably believed that at least one person in a group of two or more was a gang member, and who regarded the group as remaining in a public place with “no apparent purpose,” to order everyone to disperse. Refusal brought punishment. The Supreme Court held the ordinance invalid. “No apparent purpose” was too vague and allowed officers on the beat to draw the line between innocent conduct and crime.

Papachristou did not single-handedly remake the entire American law of criminal offenses. Its immediate effect was to accelerate the disappearance of old-style vagrancy laws and require public-order offenses to use more definite conduct elements and enforcement standards. The justice system had to turn its attention from labels attached to suspects toward their conduct, the circumstances at the scene, and dangers that could be proved. In that way, the case helped regularize American criminal justice.

Status and Conduct in Grants Pass

It would be easy to draw an overly optimistic conclusion: once the old vagrancy laws disappeared, so did the police power to remove people from the street arbitrarily. The history is more complicated.

Police historian Sarah Seo has observed that, in the constitutional case law, the 1972 judgment was a victory for individual liberty. In the history of policing, however, the same period also saw the growth of proactive street policing, Terry stops, and enforcement of minor public-order offenses. Papachristou constrained the forms through which police exercised discretion; it did not remove discretion from the street.

Legal historian Lissa Goluboff asks a related question: why did the old vagrancy laws survive for so long? In her account, those laws often cared less about what a person had done than about whether that person occupied the place society assigned to him or her. A Black person in an unwelcome neighborhood, a worker leaving an employer, gay people gathering openly, or young people rejecting conventional life could all be treated as out of place. Challenges brought through the civil-rights movement, labor organizing, gay-rights activism, the antiwar movement, and youth culture therefore shared a claim: the state could not dictate in advance what identity each person should possess and where that identity was permitted to appear.

Together, these accounts locate Papachristou more precisely. The case ended an overt form of status-based enforcement, but it did not end subjective judgment by police. Statutes were less likely to declare a “vagabond” or “common night walker” criminal by name. Similar judgments could instead migrate into rules governing camping, sleeping in public, or disorderly conduct.

That is why the controversy persists. To understand its modern form, we need to separate two constitutional lines. The first is the void-for-vagueness problem represented by Papachristou. The second concerns status crimes under the Eighth Amendment: may the state punish a person for a condition or status without regard to conduct? The issues often appear together in debates over homelessness, but they ask different legal questions. Vagueness concerns whether a rule has intelligible boundaries. The status-conduct distinction asks whether the state is punishing who a person is or what that person has done.

City of Grants Pass v. Johnson brought that distinction back to the Supreme Court in 2024. Grants Pass, Oregon, prohibited camping on public property and defined camping to include the use of bedding. On its face, the rule applied to everyone. A person experiencing homelessness, a backpacker passing through town, and a student participating in a protest encampment were all subject to it. Their practical positions differed, however. Backpackers and students could usually choose to go elsewhere; a person without housing might have no indoor place to sleep. If sleep is unavoidable, did punishing outdoor sleep regulate conduct or merely punish homelessness by another name?

The Court ruled 6–3 for Grants Pass. The majority reasoned that the ordinances punished conduct—camping on public property—not the status of being homeless. Because they applied to people regardless of status, they did not violate the Eighth Amendment rule against criminalizing status itself. Justice Sonia Sotomayor, joined by two other dissenters, took the opposite view. For a person with no indoor shelter option, she argued, sleep was not a voluntary behavior that could simply be abandoned. Punishing that person for sleeping outside was functionally close to punishing the condition of homelessness.

Importantly, Grants Pass did not overrule Papachristou. It addressed the Eighth Amendment status-crime theory, not vagueness under the Due Process Clause. The majority also acknowledged that laws directed at conduct could raise other constitutional problems if they were selectively enforced against a disfavored group. Due process and selective-enforcement claims, however, were not before the Court in that case.

The boundary drawn by Grants Pass was therefore limited. A government cannot simply announce that homelessness itself is a crime, but it may punish certain conduct such as camping in public. Whether the conduct rule is sufficiently clear, selectively enforced, or used as a proxy for excluding a class of people remains subject to other constitutional doctrines.

That distinction also clarifies Executive Order 14321. The order did not overturn Papachristou or restore the old offense of vagrancy. It used federal funding and related policy tools to encourage enforcement of restrictions on camping, loitering, and open drug use while expanding certain civil-commitment measures. Old vagrancy laws attached a criminal label directly to a “vagrant.” Modern rules more often define conduct such as sleeping outdoors or loitering. Yet the question left in 1972 remains: are those rules sufficiently clear, and do they target a demonstrable danger or a disfavored person?

From Papachristou to Sun Zhigang

For a Chinese audience, this history inevitably calls to mind another name: Sun Zhigang.

In 2003, the twenty-seven-year-old Sun was detained in Guangzhou because he was not carrying identification and had not obtained a temporary-residence permit. Authorities wrongly treated him as a person eligible for custody and repatriation. He was beaten inside a custody-and-repatriation facility and died three days later. In fact, Sun had both a job and a place to live; he did not fit even the system’s category of an indigent migrant or beggar.

The incident has sometimes been called China’s Papachristou. The comparison is imperfect. The social structures, legal mechanisms, and paths to reform were very different. The two events nevertheless leave a similar question: when a person has committed no concrete act of harm, may an official deprive that person of liberty merely because he “looks suspicious”?

Why Sun Zhigang’s death helped bring the custody-and-repatriation system to an end, and how legal scholars’ review proposals and public opinion influenced that change, will be the subject of the next episode.

From the Ordinance of Labourers enacted in 1349 to control labor, through the Supreme Court’s invalidation of Jacksonville’s Vagrancy Ordinance in 1972, to present disputes over camping, loitering, and public order, the language of law has continually changed while the same problem returns. It has no final answer. Whenever law prepares to restrict a person’s liberty because of a status attached to that person, we should ask the question again.

Key Figures

• Jimmy Lee Smith: A part-time organizer for a Black political organization who was arrested while waiting for a friend downtown and carrying no identification.
• Milton Henry: An eighteen-year-old high-school student arrested with Smith while they waited for a friend.
• William O. Douglas: Associate Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court from 1939 to 1975 and author of the Court’s opinion in Papachristou.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Papachristou v. City of Jacksonville: The Supreme Court ruled 7–0 that Jacksonville’s Vagrancy Ordinance was unconstitutionally vague. Criminal law must tell ordinary people what conduct is prohibited and constrain law enforcement; it cannot make “who looks suspicious” an element of crime.
• The Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment: Requires state and local criminal laws to satisfy a minimum standard of clarity and provided the constitutional basis for Papachristou.
• The void-for-vagueness doctrine: The ordinance failed both to give fair notice and to supply standards for law enforcement, inviting arbitrary arrests and convictions. The threat to ordinary activity and the higher clarity demanded of criminal rules reinforced the Court’s conclusion.
• The Vagrancy Act 1824: A major point in the development of modern English criminal vagrancy law, listing categories such as idle and disorderly persons, rogues, and vagabonds.
• The Black Codes: Racial laws enacted by Southern states during Reconstruction. Their vagrancy provisions helped channel emancipation into new forms of forced labor.
• Terry v. Ohio: Permits a brief investigative stop based on reasonable suspicion arising from specific, articulable facts. Papachristou did not disturb that rule.
• Kolender v. Lawson: Invalidated California’s vague identification requirement because it gave police nearly complete discretion, providing one of the clearest later expressions of Papachristou’s concern with constraining police power.
• City of Chicago v. Morales: The Supreme Court invalidated Chicago’s gang-loitering ordinance 6–3 because the phrase “no apparent purpose” was impermissibly vague.
• City of Grants Pass v. Johnson: The Court ruled 6–3 that generally applicable public-camping ordinances regulated conduct rather than the status of homelessness and therefore did not violate the Eighth Amendment.
• Executive Order 14321, “Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets”: Directed federal agencies to consider prioritizing support for states and cities enforcing restrictions on camping, loitering, and open drug use, while promoting expanded civil-commitment measures within existing law.

Related Episodes

• 10 You Have the Right to Remain Silent: How the Miranda Warning Transformed American Justice

This became the famous “first case of judicial application of China’s Constitution.” In Episode 13 of Reasoned Talk, “China’s ‘First Constitutional Case’: Qi Yuling’s Stolen Right to Education,” we told the full story. In a 2001 reply to the Shandong High People’s Court, the Supreme People’s Court wrote that Chen Xiaoqi and the other defendants had “infringed Qi Yuling’s fundamental right to education under the Constitution by means of infringing her right to a name.” That sentence later became one of the best-known texts in the history of Chinese constitutional scholarship.

But if we temporarily set aside the grand debate over the “judicial application of the Constitution,” another question deserves just as much attention: when one person steals another’s identity and takes the educational opportunity that rightfully belongs to them, how exactly should the law address that conduct?

In 2001, the law had to explain this injury through the “right to a name” and the “right to education.” Twenty years later, it had acquired a far more direct name: the “crime of identity substitution.” What happened in between?

From Qi Yuling to Chen Chunxiu

What makes the Qi Yuling case so difficult to forget is not merely the misuse of her name. If Chen Xiaoqi had done nothing more than use Qi Yuling’s name, the case would not have led to everything that followed. The reality was much more serious: the stolen name was only the means and the outward appearance; what Qi Yuling actually lost was an educational opportunity. In the 1990s, admission to a secondary technical school could also bring a rural student an urban household registration, an assigned job, and an entire set of life opportunities. Qi did not lose only her name. She lost a promising path through life.

That is why the first-instance judgment, which protected only her right to a name, seemed somehow insufficient. The Supreme People’s Court’s 2001 reply therefore expressly connected the right to a name with the constitutional right to education. In retrospect, the formulation may seem somewhat circuitous. At the time, however, it represented an effort to locate a complex injury within the existing legal framework: the means was the misuse of a name, but the result was the loss of an educational opportunity.

Nearly eight years after the Qi Yuling case concluded, Luo Caixia, who was about to graduate from Tianjin Normal University, discovered an irregularity in her identity records while handling a bank transaction in March 2009. After investigating further, she learned that her high-school classmate Wang Jiajun had used Luo’s name and college-entrance-examination information to enroll at Guizhou Normal University as early as 2004.

Luo Caixia had fallen short of Hunan’s cutoff for second-tier undergraduate admission in 2004. She repeated her final year of high school and gained admission to Tianjin Normal University the following year. Unlike Qi Yuling, therefore, Luo did not completely lose the opportunity to continue her education. Yet the other “Luo Caixia” who had assumed her identity still intruded into her real life. Because Luo had repeated a year, she encountered all kinds of problems when graduating, applying for a teaching certificate, and looking for work. Once another person had already used the same set of identity information, the real Luo Caixia was forced to prove, again and again: I am who I say I am.

The timing is especially revealing. In December 2008, the Supreme People’s Court repealed Judicial Interpretation [2001] No. 25, the reply on which the Qi Yuling case had relied. A few months later, Luo Caixia sued Wang Jiajun and others for infringing her rights to a name and to education. But because the Supreme People’s Court’s reply in the Qi Yuling case had already been repealed, the judicial route that connected the right to a name with the constitutional right to education could no longer be used in Luo’s case. The court therefore continued to classify the dispute simply as one involving infringement of the right to a name. The case ultimately ended in mediation in 2010, with Wang Jiajun’s father, Wang Zhengrong, paying Luo Caixia RMB 45,000 in compensation.

The underlying problem did not disappear. Similar incidents that continued to come to light demonstrated that using another person’s identity to attend school not only inflicts enormous harm on the victim, but also carries serious and easily underestimated social consequences. Identity substitution may look simple, but in reality it can require the coordination of examination files, household-registration information, school reviews, and relevant officials. It is usually difficult for an impostor acting alone to “become” another person completely. In these cases, the law therefore confronts a chain of fraud extending across admission, student registration, household registration, and employment.

In 2020, Chen Chunxiu’s experience brought the issue back into public view. Chen was born in Guan County, Shandong Province. She took the national college entrance examination in 2004 and scored 546 in the science track, twenty-seven points above the cutoff for first-batch junior-college admission that year. But she never received an admission notice. Believing that she had failed, she left home to work. Sixteen years later, she decided to continue her studies through the adult college entrance examination. When she checked the China Higher Education Student Information website, she was astonished to discover that “Chen Chunxiu” had already attended and graduated from Shandong University of Technology.

According to the official report, the impostor, Chen Yanping, had scored only 303 on the college entrance examination that year and did not meet the cutoff for first-batch junior-college admission. Her family used personal connections with the head of the Guan County admissions office and others to select Chen Chunxiu as the person she would replace. They printed Chen Chunxiu’s examination permit from the admissions system, intercepted the admission notice that had already been mailed, fabricated her high-school records, and obtained false household-registration documents. Multiple stages that were supposed to verify identity instead combined to create a channel for identity fraud.

In the summer of 2020, the experiences of Chen Chunxiu, Wang Lili, Gou Jing, and others entered the public eye one after another. In August, the Legislative Affairs Commission of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress responded that using another person’s identity to attend university not only causes irreparable loss and alters the victim’s life trajectory, but also undermines educational fairness. It expressly stated that it would study bringing such conduct within the scope of the criminal law. Two months later, the second deliberation draft of Amendment XI to the Criminal Law added a relevant provision.

Why Make Identity Substitution a Crime?

Before the “crime of identity substitution” was created, was the law really powerless to deal with the conduct? Of course not.

Before 2021, using another person’s identity to attend university was not an independent offense under that name, but the chain of fraud surrounding the substitution could still violate other criminal laws. Forging identity documents, official documents, household-registration records, or student records could constitute offenses involving the forgery or alteration of documents. Stealing or using another person’s identity documents could incur criminal liability. Admissions personnel who practiced favoritism or abused their authority could be guilty of the relevant dereliction-of-duty offenses. If favors, payments, or bribes were also involved, the conduct could further implicate the crimes of offering or accepting bribes.

The Luo Caixia case is a typical example. While helping his daughter complete the substitution, Wang Zhengrong forged documents issued by state organs. A court ultimately sentenced him to two years’ imprisonment for forging documents of state organs. Combining that sentence with a previous sentence for accepting bribes, it imposed a total term of four years’ imprisonment.

In other words, the old criminal law was not helpless against identity substitution, but it could punish only one of the discrete “acts” used to carry it out. This raised an intriguing legal question: if a person did not personally forge any documents or commit another act sufficient to constitute a separate offense, but knew they were unqualified and nevertheless took an admission place under someone else’s identity, did the act of substitution itself warrant an independent judgment under the criminal law?

On December 26, 2020, the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress adopted Amendment XI to the Criminal Law. The amendment added Article 280-2, bringing three types of qualification within the scope of the new offense: admission to higher academic education, eligibility for civil-service employment, and employment-placement benefits. Whoever steals or falsely uses another person’s identity to take that person’s place in obtaining one of these qualifications may be sentenced to imprisonment of up to three years, criminal detention, or public surveillance, together with a fine. A person who organizes or directs another to commit the offense receives a heavier punishment. If a state functionary commits the conduct and thereby also commits another crime, the rules governing combined punishment for multiple offenses apply.

The amendment took effect on March 1, 2021. That year, when the Supreme People’s Court and Supreme People’s Procuratorate assigned names to the newly added offenses, they designated the offense under Article 280-2 the “crime of identity substitution.” As a matter of legal language, this marked a clear change. It also shifted the focus of criminal responsibility. The law would no longer punish only the forgery of documents, bribery, or dereliction of duty that happened to accompany the substitution. It would also punish the act of “taking a qualification secured by another person” itself.

Moreover, the term that recurs in the provision is not “name,” but qualification. Places in higher academic education, civil-service appointments, and employment-placement benefits all involve the allocation of opportunities. They are often limited in number and distributed through examinations, admissions, or recruitment procedures. When one person obtains such a qualification under another’s identity, the injury extends beyond personal identity to the system of fair distribution built around that qualification.

The Restraint of the Criminal Law and the Supplementary Role of the Education Law

It is worth noting that, in the field of education, Article 280-2 of the Criminal Law does not protect every kind of “admission qualification.” It is expressly limited to admission to “higher academic education.” If the Qi Yuling case were to occur today, the qualification taken from her would be for a technical secondary school, which is not a form of higher academic education. A court therefore still could not find the defendant guilty of identity substitution under Article 280-2.

This is not wordplay. It follows from the restraint of the criminal law and the principle of legality. The idea of restraint means that criminal law should serve only as the “last resort” for protecting rights. Criminal punishment includes the harshest measures the state can impose on a person, from depriving someone of liberty to taking a life. Precisely for that reason, the state must exercise extreme caution when applying the criminal law. It should ordinarily do so only when other legal means are insufficient to protect the relevant interests effectively. Put differently, criminal law should be the ballast that stabilizes the entire legal system, not an instrument to be deployed lightly.

This leads to the criminal-law principle of legality: no act is a crime, and no punishment may be imposed, unless the law expressly provides for it. Article 280-2 expressly limits the crime of identity substitution to qualifications for “higher academic education.” Under the principle of legality, a court cannot therefore treat the substitution of another person’s technical-secondary-school qualification as this offense. That is not pedantry. It is a necessary consequence of the criminal law’s restraint. No matter how morally reprehensible an act may be, the first question must still be whether the statutory elements of an offense actually cover it.

To fill the legal gap left by the restraint of the criminal law and the principle of legality, the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress amended Article 77 of the Education Law in April 2021. It added provisions specifically addressing conduct that steals or falsely uses another person’s identity in order to replace that person and obtain an admission qualification. Unlike the Criminal Law, the Education Law does not limit “admission qualification” to higher academic education.

More importantly, the Education Law also added a distinctly restorative provision: a person whose admission qualification has been taken and whose rights have been infringed may request restoration of that qualification. This sentence performs a completely different function from the Criminal Law. The Criminal Law answers, “How should the impostor be punished?” The Education Law goes further and asks, “How can the victim be made whole?” One focuses on the wrongdoer; the other on the victim. One emphasizes punishment; the other attempts to restore an opportunity. Following the path that began with Qi Yuling, the law finally moved beyond evaluating the perpetrator and began to confront the essence of identity substitution more directly.

Reflections Beyond the Law

Of course, the law is not a time machine. For someone who has only just discovered the substitution, these remedies may still be meaningful. But for someone who learns the truth ten or twenty years later, even the restoration of an admission qualification on paper may not restore the life they could have lived. If Qi Yuling had entered Jining Commercial School at seventeen, might she later have found more stable employment? If Chen Chunxiu had walked into Shandong University of Technology at twenty, how might her life have changed? No one can know.

This is where the limits of law become clear. A court can apply the Civil Code to recognize direct and consequential losses, and it can award damages for emotional distress. The Criminal Law can convict an impostor. The Education Law can revoke a fraudulent degree and restore an admission qualification. But the law cannot create a seventeen-year-old Qi Yuling again, nor can it erase the sixteen years Chen Chunxiu spent working away from home. That may be why this kind of identity substitution provokes more anger than ordinary identity theft. What it truly steals is the most precious and possibility-filled period of a person’s life: their youth.

From Qi Yuling to Chen Chunxiu, and from 1999 to 2021, Chinese law took more than twenty years to confront the problem of identity substitution directly. The law still has many limitations when it comes to remedies for violated rights. At the very least, however, it now provides a clearly divided and intelligible path for resolving similar cases in the future. Beyond the debate over the “judicial application of the Constitution,” this may be another historical thread in the Qi Yuling case worth remembering.

Key People

• Qi Yuling (originally named Qi Yuling with a different final character, 齐玉玲) — Took the Shandong Province technical-secondary-school entrance examination in 1990 and was admitted to Jining Commercial School, but her admission notice was taken. She filed suit in 1999 and received compensation after a final judgment by the Shandong High People’s Court in 2001.
• Chen Xiaoqi (formerly Chen Hengyan) — Qi Yuling’s classmate. With the assistance of her father, Chen Kezheng, and other relevant personnel, she used Qi Yuling’s name and admission notice to enter Jining Commercial School and later obtained employment under Qi’s identity after graduation.
• Luo Caixia — Discovered in 2009 that her high-school classmate Wang Jiajun had used her name and college-entrance-examination information to enter Guizhou Normal University in 2004. The related civil case concluded through mediation in 2010.
• Wang Jiajun — The person who entered university under Luo Caixia’s identity. Her enrollment under Luo’s name caused the real Luo Caixia to encounter persistent conflicts in her identity records during graduation, qualification examinations, and job applications.
• Wang Zhengrong — Wang Jiajun’s father. He forged documents issued by state organs while helping his daughter enter university under another person’s identity and was later punished for multiple offenses, including forging documents of state organs and accepting bribes.
• Chen Chunxiu — Scored high enough on the 2004 college entrance examination to qualify for admission to Shandong University of Technology, but believed that she had failed after her admission notice was intercepted. Sixteen years later, she discovered through the China Higher Education Student Information website that another person had used her identity.
• Chen Yanping — The person who entered Shandong University of Technology under Chen Chunxiu’s identity. Her family arranged the substitution through personal connections with admissions personnel, interception of the admission notice, and the fabrication of school records and household-registration documents.

Key Concepts and Legal Provisions

• Right to a name — The right of a natural person to decide, use, change, or authorize another to use their name in accordance with law. Identity substitution first appears as the stealing or false use of another person’s name, but in educational cases the victim often also loses an educational opportunity and its associated benefits.
• Judicial Interpretation [2001] No. 25 — The Supreme People’s Court’s reply in the Qi Yuling case, which found that Chen Xiaoqi and others had infringed Qi Yuling’s fundamental constitutional right to education by means of infringing her right to a name. The reply was repealed in 2008.
• Articles 1012 and 1014 of the Civil Code — The former provides that a natural person enjoys the right to a name; the latter prohibits any organization or individual from interfering with, stealing, or falsely using another person’s name or designation.
• Article 3 of the Criminal Law (principle of legality) — Only conduct expressly defined as a crime by law may be convicted and punished. Conduct that the law does not expressly define as criminal may not be convicted or punished. The crime of identity substitution therefore cannot be expanded at will beyond the types of qualification specified in the provision.
• Article 280-2 of the Criminal Law (crime of identity substitution) — Punishes a person who steals or falsely uses another person’s identity to take that person’s place in obtaining admission to higher academic education, eligibility for civil-service employment, or employment-placement benefits. The prescribed penalty is imprisonment of up to three years, criminal detention, or public surveillance, together with a fine.
• Article 77 of the Education Law — Provides for administrative, public-security, and criminal liability for using another person’s identity to obtain admission, and expressly permits a person whose admission qualification has been taken and whose rights have been infringed to request restoration of that qualification. “Admission qualification” here is not limited to higher academic education.
• Supplementary Provisions (VII) of the Supreme People’s Court and Supreme People’s Procuratorate on the Designation of Offenses under the Criminal Law of the People’s Republic of China — Took effect on March 1, 2021, and formally designated the offense under Article 280-2 of the Criminal Law the “crime of identity substitution.”
• Restraint of the criminal law — Criminal punishment should serve as the last resort for protecting legally recognized interests and should be used cautiously when other legal measures cannot effectively address serious social harm. Together with the principle of legality, this concept limits the expansion of the state’s punitive power.

This article is further reading for Episode 13 of Reasoned Talk. If you have not yet listened to the episode, you can begin there for the complete story of the Qi Yuling case and the Supreme People’s Court reply that sparked more than twenty years of legal debate. If you have thoughts of your own, feel free to share them in the comments.

This is the transcript of episode 13 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

At the end of 1998, in Tengzhou, Shandong, a woman in her twenties named Qi Yuling had a strange encounter. A bank employee she had never met came to congratulate her. Qi was baffled. When she pressed for an explanation, she learned that another person at the bank had exactly the same name: “Qi Yuling.”

Qi later saw a photograph of this other “Qi Yuling.” The woman was Chen Xiaoqi, a former classmate from Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School. Eight years earlier, the two had attended the same school. Now Chen was working at a bank under Qi’s name.

Chen’s father, Chen Kezheng, then the village Party secretary, sent someone to offer Qi 5,000 yuan to settle the matter privately. Qi refused. Chen Kezheng and others then harassed and intimidated her family. Qi later told the media that she felt her life had been “stolen.”

She eventually chose to sue. In January 1999, Qi filed a complaint with the Zaozhuang Intermediate People’s Court in Shandong. For the first time, an identity substitution concealed for almost a decade entered a courtroom. No one expected the case to reach the Supreme People’s Court and become known as “China’s first case of judicial application of the Constitution.”

Episode 8 discussed the birth of judicial review in the United States through Marbury v. Madison, the ingenious decision in which the U.S. Supreme Court claimed authority to interpret the Constitution. After that episode, a listener asked me privately: Can China’s Supreme People’s Court interpret the Constitution? Does China have its own Marbury v. Madison?

The Qi Yuling case is often compared with American judicial review. Some call it the first Chinese case in which a court invoked the Constitution to protect a citizen’s fundamental rights. Others regard it as no more than an individual judicial reply whose significance was exaggerated. Seven years later, the reply was repealed, seemingly returning everything to where it began.

But was it really so simple? Why did a one-sentence reply from the Supreme People’s Court provoke years of debate? Why was it quietly repealed seven years later? Behind the reply lies a revealing period in which the Chinese judiciary explored whether the Constitution could be used in deciding an individual case.

Eight Stolen Years

The story began in the spring of 1990.

That year, Shandong held a province-wide entrance examination for technical secondary schools. Seventeen-year-old Qi Yuling attended Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School. She passed the preliminary selection, sat for the examination, and scored 441—above the admission threshold for the accounting program at Jining Commercial School. At the time, admission to such a school could transform a rural girl’s prospects: it could bring urban household registration and an assigned job after graduation.

Qi never received her admission notice.

Chen Xiaoqi had been in the same year at Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School. She failed the preliminary selection and was not eligible to take the entrance examination. Yet, through arrangements made by her father and with the cooperation of personnel at the schools and local education authority, Qi’s admission notice from Jining Commercial School ended up in Chen’s hands.

This was not simply a matter of taking someone else’s letter. To enroll Chen under Qi’s identity, the participants falsified school records, medical forms, and identity information. They facilitated the substitution at multiple stages, including admission review and the transfer of student files.

In the autumn of 1990, Chen entered Jining Commercial School as “Qi Yuling.” She graduated in 1993 and later found work at a bank under Qi’s identity.

The real Qi had never been told her examination score or the qualifying score for a sponsored placement. Without an admission notice, she believed that she had failed. She worked in agriculture and repeated a year of study. In 1993, she paid a 6,000-yuan surcharge to obtain urban household registration and enrolled in a labor technical school. In 1996, she was assigned to the Shandong Lunan Ferroalloy Factory, but was soon laid off during restructuring. She survived by selling breakfast food and simple meals.

Admissions administration in the 1990s depended on paper files and manual review. China had no nationwide online student-record system and no electronic identity verification. A stolen admission notice, altered file, and assumed identity could be difficult to detect. Rural students such as Qi had limited access to policy information and often did not know where to verify a result or file a complaint.

As a village Party secretary, Chen Kezheng possessed more information and had access to school and education officials. A grassroots official used institutional information asymmetry and personal connections to engineer the substitution.

The case therefore posed a basic question: if an ordinary person did not even know that someone had stolen her educational opportunity, how could the law protect her? Qi’s encounter at the bank in late 1998 changed the course of her life again. She learned the truth, rejected a private settlement, and went to court.

From the Right to a Name to the Right to Education

Qi filed suit in January 1999. On May 31, the Zaozhuang Intermediate People’s Court issued its first-instance judgment. It found that the defendants had falsified records so that Chen could enroll under Qi’s identity and had therefore infringed Qi’s right to her name. But the court held that there was insufficient evidence for her claim that her right to education had been violated. The judgment characterized the right to education as part of a citizen’s general personality rights, yet stated that the evidence showed Qi had “in fact given up the opportunity” to pursue a sponsored placement. Because she did not contact a sponsoring institution or pay the relevant fee, the court reasoned, she had not proved an infringement of her right to education.

The Shandong High People’s Court later found no evidence that Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School had told Qi either her examination score or the qualifying score. Although she had indicated before the examination that she would accept a sponsored placement, she did not know she had been admitted. How could she contact a sponsoring institution or pay a fee for an admission she did not know existed?

The first-instance court ordered Chen to stop infringing Qi’s right to her name. It also ordered Chen, her father, Jining Commercial School, Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School, and the local education authority to apologize and pay 35,000 yuan for emotional distress. It rejected Qi’s remaining claims for economic loss and additional damages.

Qi appealed to the Shandong High People’s Court.

The appeal presented a crucial procedural problem. Had the defendants infringed only Qi’s right to her name? Or, by using that infringement as their means, had they violated a more fundamental right—the constitutional right to education? If so, could conduct that formally violated the right to a name but substantively violated a constitutional right generate civil liability?

This was not an abstract exercise in wording. The civil law then in force expressly protected the right to a name: Article 99 of the General Principles of the Civil Law prohibited the appropriation or false use of another person’s name. But it contained no corresponding provision on the right to education.

That right appeared in the Constitution. Article 46 states: “Citizens of the People’s Republic of China have the right as well as the duty to receive education.” Could judges invoke such a constitutional-rights provision in a civil case? Chinese judicial practice had no clear answer.

The Shandong High People’s Court did not decide the matter on its own. Acting under the Organic Law of the People’s Courts, it requested guidance from the Supreme People’s Court. Its central question was whether a person who used infringement of the right to a name as the means of violating the constitutionally protected right to education should bear civil liability.

A One-Sentence Reply

The request remained at the Supreme People’s Court for almost two years. Its Adjudication Committee adopted a reply in June 2001. The document was formally published on July 24 and took effect on August 13 as Judicial Interpretation [2001] No. 25.

The substantive reply was one sentence long:

By infringing the right to a name, Chen Xiaoqi and the others infringed Qi Yuling’s fundamental right to education as enjoyed under the Constitution and caused specific harmful consequences; they shall bear the corresponding civil liability.

That sentence provoked years of controversy in Chinese legal scholarship and practice.

It mattered for three reasons.

First, a formal judicial interpretation expressly referred to a “fundamental right enjoyed under the Constitution” and used it in determining civil tort liability. That was a significant departure in Supreme People’s Court practice.

Second, it recognized that infringement of a constitutional right could trigger civil liability. Constitutional rights were not wholly unavailable in a concrete civil dispute—at least not in this case.

Third, it supplied a framework for legal characterization. The conduct appeared to infringe only the right to a name, but in substance it violated the more fundamental right to education. Moving from form to substance gave lower courts a possible model for similar disputes.

One qualification is essential. The reply did not grant ordinary courts authority to review legislation for constitutionality. It said that infringement of the constitutional right to education could create civil liability; it did not invalidate a statute or regulation. The case remained within the framework of civil tort liability. It was not an exercise of constitutional review.

Later media accounts and academic commentary often described the case as the first time a Chinese court used the Constitution to decide a case, or as the beginning of judicial application of the Constitution. Those descriptions have some basis, but they can mislead unless one distinguishes invoking constitutional reasoning from exercising constitutional review.

The reply located Qi’s right to education in Article 46 of the Constitution and held that the defendants’ identity substitution had violated it. It neither reviewed another legal rule for constitutionality nor issued a formal, abstract constitutional interpretation. Yet whether giving a constitutional right consequences in an individual civil case already amounted in substance to interpreting and applying the Constitution became the heart of the later dispute.

Some scholars called the method an “indirect application” of the Constitution: constitutional values and rights supplied the foundation, while civil tort liability delivered the remedy. Others argued that the Shandong High People’s Court went beyond value guidance by listing Article 46 directly among the grounds for judgment. Whether the case directly applied the Constitution or indirectly protected a constitutional right through civil law has never had a universally accepted answer.

The Final Judgment and Belated Compensation

After receiving the reply, the Shandong High People’s Court issued its final judgment on August 23, 2001. It changed important parts of the first-instance result. The court held that the defendants’ conduct “appeared in form as an infringement of the right to a name, but in substance infringed Qi Yuling’s fundamental right to education under the Constitution.” Relying on Article 46 of the Constitution, the Education Law, the General Principles of the Civil Law, the Supreme People’s Court reply, and the Civil Procedure Law, it partially vacated and modified the earlier judgment.

The damages had three components. The first was 7,000 yuan in direct economic loss, covering expenses such as repeated schooling, the urban-registration surcharge, and litigation. The second was 41,045 yuan in indirect economic loss, calculated from wages Chen received under Qi’s name between 1993 and 2001 after deducting necessary living costs. The third was 50,000 yuan for emotional distress, the maximum under the Shandong High People’s Court’s standard at the time. The total was 98,045 yuan. Jining Commercial School, Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School, and the local education authority bore joint and several liability for the relevant sums.

From 35,000 yuan at first instance to almost 100,000 yuan on appeal, and from a finding that Qi had given up the opportunity to an acknowledgment that her constitutional right had been violated, Qi won the lawsuit in an important sense. Even so, no one could call the award an equivalent return for eight stolen years.

The judgment also exposed systemic failures in admissions administration. Jining Commercial School failed to prevent an impostor from enrolling. Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School and the local education authority failed at stages including delivery of the admission notice, review of student files, and later handling of records. Multiple parts of the local education system failed at once.

The case drew intense media attention. Before internet access was widespread, newspapers and television turned school-admission identity substitution into a major public issue. Many similar revelations in later years showed that Qi’s experience was not an isolated anomaly.

For Qi, the final judgment ended the lawsuit. For Chinese law, the controversy surrounding the Supreme People’s Court reply was only beginning.

Three Views of Constitutional Application

The first position can be called the constitutional breakthrough view. It treats the Qi Yuling case as the first Chinese case in which a court used a constitutional provision to protect a citizen’s fundamental rights. Huang Songyou, then chief judge of the Supreme People’s Court’s First Civil Division, wrote that the case had “created a precedent for judicial application of the Constitution.” Media accounts quickly labeled it “China’s first case of constitutional judicialization.”

On this view, the Constitution should not remain a declaration on paper. If courts cannot even acknowledge a constitutional right when it is violated, what practical meaning does that right possess? The reply was a positive signal: in a concrete case, courts could and should attend to constitutional protection of citizens.

The limitation is that this view may exaggerate an individual case. A reply to a specific request is not the same as an institutionalized mechanism for constitutional application. Calling the case the beginning of constitutional judicialization can imply that Chinese courts acquired something like American judicial review. The reply did no such thing.

The second position is the civil law is sufficient view. It regards Qi’s loss as an ordinary civil tort that required no constitutional intervention. The identity substitution plainly infringed her right to a name and might even have involved criminal conduct, but compensation could still be handled within civil and criminal law.

This is a pragmatic position. The General Principles of the Civil Law already protected the right to a name and imposed tort liability, while the later Civil Code provides still more complete rules. There is no need to enter a grand and difficult dispute about applying the Constitution if ordinary law supplies a cause of action.

Its weakness is that it overlooks the constitutional character of the interest asserted. Qi lost more than control over her name. She lost an education, a fundamental right expressly guaranteed by the Constitution. Civil law at the time left a gap in protecting that interest; the constitutional provision was introduced precisely to fill it.

The third position is the institutional overreach view. It argues that direct reliance on the Constitution by the Supreme People’s Court could conflict with the constitutional authority of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress. Article 67 empowers the Standing Committee to interpret the Constitution and supervise its enforcement. If courts at every level could directly invoke and interpret the Constitution in judgments, that allocation of authority would be disrupted.

The concern has force. But the opposite rule produces its own problem: if courts are wholly prohibited from considering constitutional provisions, where can a citizen seek relief when a constitutional right is violated and ordinary legislation happens not to cover it? That dilemma is real.

The Horizontal Effect of Fundamental Rights

A deeper issue lies beneath these three positions: whether constitutional rights bind private actors. Constitutional theory calls this the “third-party effect” or “horizontal effect” of fundamental rights.

Traditionally, fundamental rights constrain the state. The government may not arbitrarily invade freedom of expression or the right to education. This is a vertical relationship between the individual and the state. But Chen Xiaoqi and Qi Yuling were both private individuals. Could a constitutional right affect the private tort relationship between them? If it could, would the right operate directly, or indirectly through civil-law provisions?

German law recognizes theories under which fundamental rights influence private relationships indirectly through the general clauses of civil law. The United States has judicial review, but the state-action doctrine ordinarily prevents constitutional rights from binding purely private conduct. Different systems have developed different routes for bringing constitutional rights into private relationships; none can simply be transplanted into another.

One can understand the Supreme People’s Court reply as follows: the court invoked the Constitution, but the final judgment still imposed civil damages. The Constitution did not directly regulate the relationship between the private parties. It supplied guidance in principle, while civil law directly governed the tort. This partly resembles the German idea of third-party effect. The comparison remains tentative, however, because the reply did not articulate that logic—and the reply itself was repealed only seven years after taking effect.

Repealed Seven Years Later

In December 2008, the Supreme People’s Court Adjudication Committee adopted a decision repealing Judicial Interpretation [2001] No. 25. Seven years after it had been hailed as the opening of constitutional judicialization, that path ended. The official explanation consisted of only four Chinese characters: “application has ceased.”

The repeal triggered another wave of debate. Because the Supreme People’s Court offered no substantive explanation, scholars looked to the institutional background. Some argued that the Court lacked authority to issue a formal constitutional interpretation and therefore had to stop the practice. Others believed that, as civil legislation developed, an individual-case reply had become unnecessary. There is no authoritative answer as to which explanation is closest to the truth.

Repeal did not invalidate the final judgment in Qi’s case. But courts could no longer rely on the reply in later disputes. In 2016, the Supreme People’s Court’s rules on the preparation of civil judgments further specified that the Constitution could not be cited directly as a ground of decision, although its principles and spirit could be discussed in the court’s reasoning. Constitutional provisions could inform explanation, but not serve directly as adjudicative grounds.

The repeal reflects a deeper institutional tension. On one side, the Constitution is the fundamental law and guarantees citizens’ rights; those rights require some route from paper into practice. On the other, constitutional enforcement in China operates through the people’s congress system. Record-filing review, constitutional review, and authoritative legal interpretation are led by the people’s congresses. The role courts may play has always been limited.

The Qi Yuling reply was an experiment within that limited space. Without creating a system of judicial review, it sought a channel through which constitutional rights could enter civil adjudication. Its repeal at least shows that the channel did not receive sustained institutional support.

If the Case Happened Today

More than two decades later, how would Chinese law handle the same events today?

The 2001 reply has been repealed, but later legislation responds to the failures exposed by the case in several ways.

First is civil law. The Civil Code took effect in 2021. Its Book on Personality Rights systematically protects the right to a name and prohibits interference with, appropriation of, or false use of another person’s name. Its tort rules provide liability for infringement of civil rights and interests. A victim today could sue directly for infringement of the right to a name and seek cessation of the infringement, an apology, and damages. Even so, present law offers no simple, uniform method for valuing a lost educational or employment opportunity or proving causation.

Second is criminal law. Amendment XI to the Criminal Law, effective in 2021, created the offense of identity substitution in admissions, now Article 280-2 of the Criminal Law:

Whoever steals or falsely uses another person’s identity to take that person’s place in obtaining admission to higher academic education, eligibility for civil-service employment, or employment-placement benefits shall be sentenced to imprisonment of not more than three years, criminal detention, or public surveillance, and shall also be fined.

The new offense followed concentrated media exposure of university-admission substitution cases between 2018 and 2020, including the Gou Jing case in Shandong. In July 2020, a group of lawyers submitted a proposal to the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress. They wrote that taking another person’s university place “uses infringement of the right to a name as the means of infringing the constitutionally protected right to education”—language drawn directly from the 2001 reply. The legal framing of the Qi Yuling case still shaped legislative discussion two decades later.

The criminal offense applies, in the education context, to admission to higher academic education. Qi’s case involved admission to a technical secondary school. If the same conduct occurred today, Article 280-2 ordinarily would not apply directly. Whether conduct also constituted an offense involving forged or altered official documents would depend on the particular facts and could not be assumed categorically.

Third are the Education Law and administrative controls. Article 77 of the Education Law, as revised in 2021, specifically provides legal consequences for stealing or using another identity to take an admission place. It refers generally to an “admission qualification,” not only higher education, and can therefore reach technical secondary schooling. Student-record systems and identity-verification mechanisms have also made substitution more difficult. A victim may ask education authorities to investigate. Where legal requirements are met, she may seek administrative reconsideration or bring administrative litigation against a specific administrative act or a failure by an agency to perform its lawful duty.

If the Qi Yuling case happened today, the victim could use the Civil Code to sue for infringement of the right to a name and request cessation, apology, and damages. She could report the matter to police for investigation of any suspected offense. She could ask education authorities to act and, in an appropriate case, pursue administrative reconsideration or litigation. Ordinary law now provides more avenues of relief than it did in 2001. That does not mean every loss can easily be made whole.

A deeper question remains. Can better ordinary legislation fully replace protection of constitutional rights? Once legislation becomes detailed enough, is there no longer any need to advance judicial application of the Constitution?

I do not think so.

Ordinary legislation answers whether a victim has a specific legal provision on which to rely. A constitutional right carries a more fundamental commitment. It tells every person in the country that the right to education is not a temporary gift from an ordinary statute, but a basic right recognized and protected by the Constitution. Ordinary law depends on that underlying commitment.

The Qi Yuling case still matters not merely because it is called a “first case,” but because it poses an unresolved question: how should a right stated in the Constitution be protected and realized in a dispute between private parties?

There is no standard answer. The reply in Qi’s case briefly opened a door. That route is now closed, but the question has not disappeared.

Returning to Qi Yuling

After the final judgment, Qi received a little over 98,000 yuan. It was a substantial sum in 2001, but money could not restore the education she lost or the path her life might have taken. In 2013, media coverage of other admissions-substitution cases revisited her “stolen life.” Since then, reliable public reporting about her personal life has been scarce. The person herself has gradually receded from the constitutional case debated in her name.

Nor do public sources provide complete and reliable accounts of what later happened to Chen Xiaoqi, Chen Kezheng, or the other responsible individuals.

The case left more than a repealed judicial interpretation or a passage in a constitutional-law textbook. It left the life of a specific, ordinary person—a life altered beyond repair, and one that therefore forced the public to reflect on institutions.

More than thirty years after the substitution, the Qi Yuling case remains a mirror of one advance and retreat in Chinese adjudication. Law does not operate in a vacuum. People make it, and it ultimately serves people. It is repeatedly contested, repaired, and rewritten among competing values. The Qi Yuling case is only one point on that long road. Perhaps it is through the accumulation of such points that society moves a little closer to justice.

Key Figures

• Qi Yuling (originally named Qi Yuling with a different final character, 齐玉玲) — A rural woman from Tengzhou, Shandong. After finishing middle school in 1990, a classmate assumed her identity and enrolled in a technical secondary school. Her name and identity were used for eight years. She sued in 1999 and received more than 98,000 yuan after the Shandong High People’s Court’s final judgment in 2001. Her case prompted the Supreme People’s Court reply on the constitutional right to education and became known in scholarship and the media as “China’s first case of constitutional judicialization.”
• Chen Xiaoqi (formerly Chen Hengyan) — Qi’s classmate at Tengzhou No. 8 Middle School. After failing the preliminary selection in 1990, she obtained Qi’s admission notice through arrangements involving her father and others, enrolled at Jining Commercial School under Qi’s identity, graduated, and found employment.
• Chen Kezheng — Chen Xiaoqi’s father and then a village Party secretary. He played a central role in arranging his daughter’s enrollment under another identity. Media reports state that, after Qi discovered the truth, he offered 5,000 yuan for a private settlement and Qi’s family later faced violent harassment.
• Huang Songyou — Then chief judge of the Supreme People’s Court’s First Civil Division. After the reply was published, he wrote that it had pioneered judicial protection of fundamental rights enjoyed under the Constitution. He became a leading advocate of the constitutional-breakthrough interpretation.

Key Concepts and Legal Documents

• Article 46 of the Constitution — “Citizens of the People’s Republic of China have the right as well as the duty to receive education.” The Supreme People’s Court reply recognized Qi’s right to education under the Constitution, and the Shandong High People’s Court expressly cited the article in its final judgment.
• Judicial Interpretation [2001] No. 25 — The Supreme People’s Court reply adopted on June 28, 2001. Its one-sentence answer held that Chen and the other defendants had used infringement of the right to a name as the means of infringing Qi’s constitutional right to education, causing concrete loss and giving rise to civil liability. It was repealed in December 2008 because its “application had ceased.”
• Judicial application of the Constitution — The use of constitutional norms in judicial proceedings or judicial remedies for constitutional rights. Some scholars regarded the reply as a precedent, but it did not confer constitutional-review authority on courts. Whether it represented direct or indirect application remains disputed.
• Constitutional review — The power to determine whether legislation or exercises of public authority conform to the Constitution and to impose consequences for inconsistency. In China, authority to interpret the Constitution belongs to the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress, while supervision of constitutional enforcement is led by the National People’s Congress and its Standing Committee. Ordinary courts do not possess American-style judicial review, and the Qi Yuling reply did not create it.
• Horizontal or third-party effect of fundamental rights — The question whether constitutional rights influence relations between private parties. The Qi Yuling case asks whether the constitutional right to education can have legal effect in a private tort committed by Chen against Qi.
• Article 99 of the General Principles of the Civil Law (1986) — It protected citizens’ right to decide, use, and lawfully change their names, and prohibited interference, appropriation, or false use. The first-instance court relied on it to find infringement of Qi’s right to her name.
• Articles 1012 and 1014 of the Civil Code — Article 1012 recognizes a natural person’s right to a name. Article 1014 prohibits interference with, appropriation of, or false use of another person’s name. The Civil Code was enacted in 2020 and took effect on January 1, 2021.
• Article 280-2 of the Criminal Law — Added by Amendment XI, it criminalizes taking another person’s place in obtaining admission to higher academic education, civil-service eligibility, or employment-placement benefits. Its education branch is limited to higher academic education and does not directly cover the technical secondary school involved in Qi’s case.
• Article 77 of the Education Law — It specifies consequences for stealing or using another person’s identity to obtain an admission place, including cancellation of admission or credentials, disciplinary measures, and other legal responsibility. “Admission” is not limited to higher education.
• The 2008 cleanup of judicial interpretations — Judicial Interpretation [2008] No. 15 repealed 27 judicial interpretations, including the 2001 reply. The official reason was only that its “application had ceased.” Scholars have proposed institutional limits on constitutional interpretation and the development of ordinary legislation as possible explanations.
• Rules for citing legal authority in judgments — After the 2001 reply was repealed, it could no longer serve as a ground of decision. The 2016 Rules on the Preparation of Civil Judgments further specified that the Constitution could not be cited directly as adjudicative authority, although its principles and spirit could be discussed in judicial reasoning.

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That decision can easily create the impression that freedom of speech in the United States has no limits. Nothing could be further from the truth.

For more than a century, the Supreme Court has repeatedly confronted the same question: where are the limits of free speech? It has never drawn a single, bright line. Instead, case by case, it has gradually assembled a series of legal tests. This article traces the development of several of the most important ones.

The First Question: Who Is Restricting Speech?

The First Amendment’s protection of speech is stated in simple terms:

Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech.

But an easily overlooked question comes first: whom does this rule bind?

The text of the First Amendment mentions only Congress, but through the Fourteenth Amendment it also applies to state and local governments. As a general rule, the Free Speech Clause restrains the government, not ordinary private actors. If a newspaper rejects your submission, a private employer dismisses you for something you said, or a social-media platform suspends your account for violating its rules, that ordinarily is not a First Amendment violation. Private actors may still be constrained by labor law, antidiscrimination law, contracts, or their own platform rules, but those are separate questions.

Only in limited circumstances can private conduct be attributed to the government—for example, when a private entity performs a function traditionally and exclusively reserved to the state, acts under government compulsion, or acts jointly with the government.

So the next time someone says, “My freedom of speech has been violated,” the first question should be: who is restricting the speech? And is the freedom being invoked one that the Constitution actually protects in this relationship?

Free Speech and Public Order

Once that basic point is clear, the next question is: what happens when speech may threaten public order? Here, one of the most famous sayings in American law is that you cannot falsely shout fire in a crowded theater.

The phrase comes from the Supreme Court’s 1919 decision in Schenck v. United States. During the First World War, socialist Charles Schenck mailed leaflets opposing the draft to men who had been called for military service. He was prosecuted under the Espionage Act, and his case reached the Supreme Court. The leaflets were plainly “speech” within the ordinary meaning of the First Amendment, so the natural question was whether opposition to the draft during wartime fell within the constitutional freedom of speech.

Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes proposed a test: whether speech is protected depends on whether, in its particular circumstances, it creates a “clear and present danger.” His reference to falsely shouting fire in a crowded theater illustrated how context can change the legal consequences of words. No theater fire was involved in Schenck, and the metaphor is not a legal rule that can be applied independently of a concrete case.

In practice, however, “clear and present danger” could still be interpreted broadly. Schenck also arose in an era deeply hostile to antiwar activists and socialists. The Court treated the leaflets as an attempt to obstruct the draft and upheld Schenck’s conviction.

The real turning point came fifty years later. In 1969, the Supreme Court decided Brandenburg v. Ohio. Brandenburg was a member of the Ku Klux Klan. He invited a television station to film one of the group’s rallies. The footage showed robed figures and a burning cross, while Brandenburg delivered racist remarks and warned that “revengeance” might be taken if the president, Congress, and the Supreme Court continued to “suppress the white, Caucasian race.”

Was this merely abstract advocacy of violence, or had it become punishable incitement? The Supreme Court reversed Brandenburg’s conviction and reshaped incitement doctrine around the stricter standard of “imminent lawless action.” In practical terms, the government may punish advocacy of violence or illegality only when three conditions are present:

1. The speaker intends to incite or produce unlawful action;
2. The unlawful action is imminent, rather than an abstract possibility in the distant future;
3. In the circumstances, the speech is likely to incite or produce that action.

These requirements address purpose, proximity in time, and practical likelihood. Praising revolution or expressing an abstract hope that the government might someday be overthrown is not incitement. Saying “break down that door now,” to a crowd likely to obey, is much closer to the point at which punishment becomes constitutionally permissible.

From Schenck to Brandenburg, the Court ceased to accept the government’s generalized sense of “danger” as enough. It demanded evidence of a very close connection between the speech and the unlawful action.

Free Speech and the Rights of Others

Those two cases concern the relationship between speech and public order. But what if speech does not threaten public order and instead insults, threatens, or defames a particular person?

Fighting Words

In 1942, the Supreme Court introduced the category of “fighting words” in Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire. Chaplinsky, a Jehovah’s Witness, came into conflict with local officials while preaching on the street. He called the town marshal a “damned Fascist” and a “God-damned racketeer.” He was convicted. The Court reasoned that some personally abusive words addressed directly to another person are inherently likely to provoke an immediate violent response. Such face-to-face provocation may be punished.

In practice, people sometimes reduce the doctrine to the idea that all profanity may be banned. The Supreme Court corrected that misconception in 1971 in Cohen v. California. Paul Cohen entered the Los Angeles County Courthouse wearing a jacket bearing the words “Fuck the Draft” to protest conscription during the Vietnam War. The words were not directed at any person, yet a state court sentenced him to thirty days in jail simply because his expression was vulgar. The Supreme Court reversed by a vote of 5–4.

The Court’s reasoning was that Cohen had not personally provoked anyone and no actual violence had occurred. Anyone who did not wish to see the words could avert their eyes. Language conveys more than rational propositions; it also carries anger, protest, and emotional force. Speech therefore does not become “fighting words” merely because it is vulgar or offensive. In context, it must amount to a personal insult directed at another person and be likely to provoke an immediate violent response.

That leads naturally to another question: how should the law treat attacks directed at a group rather than a particular individual?

The 2011 case Snyder v. Phelps pushed that question to an extreme. Members of the Westboro Baptist Church protested near the funeral of a Marine killed in action. Their signs were profoundly offensive toward gay people, members of the military, and American society. The Marine’s father suffered severe emotional distress, and a jury initially awarded him millions of dollars in damages. The Supreme Court ultimately ruled for the church by a vote of 8–1.

The Court considered the content, form, and context of the signs and concluded that they primarily addressed matters of public concern, including war, religion, and homosexuality. The protesters had also remained on public land about one thousand feet from the church, complied with police instructions, and did not disrupt the funeral. A jury therefore could not impose tort liability merely because it regarded the expression as outrageously offensive.

Taken together, these cases establish a narrow rule: vulgarity, offense, or an attack on a group is ordinarily not enough, by itself, to constitute fighting words. Even speech directed at an individual must still be the kind of face-to-face personal abuse likely to provoke an immediate violent response. This does not mean that words cannot inflict harm. It means that courts must prevent government power from expanding so far that it damages everyone’s freedom of expression. A government granted an overbroad power to suppress racist abuse today might use the same power tomorrow to suppress a minority’s criticism of the dominant order.

True Threats

Fighting words are not the only category of unprotected expression. Another is the “true threat.” Incitement seeks to cause listeners to commit unlawful acts. A true threat, by contrast, communicates a serious expression of unlawful violence toward an individual or group and places its target in fear. The prosecution need not prove that the speaker ultimately intended to carry out the violence.

In 1969, eighteen-year-old Robert Watts said at an antiwar rally that if he were ever forced to carry a rifle, “the first man I want to get in my sights is L.B.J.” The audience laughed. Considering the statement in context, the Supreme Court held that it was crude political hyperbole, not a true threat.

The 2003 case Virginia v. Black consolidated prosecutions of three defendants. One involved cross burning at a Ku Klux Klan rally; another involved an attempt to burn a cross in the yard of a Black neighbor. The Supreme Court held that a state may, in principle, prohibit cross burning carried out with an intent to intimidate because such conduct may constitute a true threat. Virginia law, however, also provided that the act of burning a cross was itself prima facie evidence of an intent to intimidate. The Court held that this rule went too far. Depending on context, the same act might be intended to terrorize someone or to express an ideology. The government may punish true threats, but it may not skip the inquiry into context and mental state by automatically presuming an intent to intimidate.

That sounds straightforward: determine whether the expression is threatening in context, and then determine the speaker’s mental state regarding its threatening character. In practice, both inquiries are difficult. The social-media era has made the second especially so.

In Counterman v. Colorado (2023), Billy Counterman created multiple Facebook accounts and sent hundreds of messages to a female musician he had never met. She repeatedly blocked him, and he repeatedly created new accounts. Some messages referred to seeing her driving or spending time with her partner; one simply said, “Die.” The recipient became frightened, lost sleep, was afraid to go out alone, and canceled performances. Colorado courts applied a “reasonable person” test: conviction was permissible if an ordinary person would understand the messages as threats, regardless of whether Counterman himself recognized their threatening nature.

The Supreme Court vacated the judgment. It held that the government must at least prove recklessness: the defendant must have consciously disregarded a substantial and unjustifiable risk that his communications would be perceived as threats of violence. This did not mean that Counterman’s conduct was harmless or that the victim’s fear was unimportant. The Court’s concern was that if criminal punishment could follow whenever another person might misunderstand a speaker’s words, much forceful but lawful expression would be chilled.

The boundary of true threats therefore cannot be reduced to a single question. At least two matters must be examined: whether the words, in context, actually conveyed a threat of violence, and whether the speaker consciously disregarded a substantial risk that they would be perceived that way.

Defamation

Another familiar form of harm caused through language is defamation, where the boundary of free speech becomes more complicated still.

During the civil-rights movement of the 1960s, officials in Southern states frequently used defamation suits and demands for enormous damages to suppress national reporting about the movement. The most famous example is New York Times Co. v. Sullivan. Supporters of the movement placed a full-page advertisement in The New York Times to raise money for Martin Luther King Jr. and protesters in the South. The advertisement criticized police repression in Alabama but contained several factual errors—about which song students had sung, whether police had “ringed” a campus, and how many times King had actually been arrested. L. B. Sullivan, Montgomery’s commissioner of public affairs, was not named in the advertisement, yet he sued the newspaper for libel and demanded enormous damages. If the judgment stood, even an innocent mistake in reporting could expose a news organization to ruinous liability and deter it from covering the subject again.

In 1964, the Supreme Court ruled against Sullivan and established the “actual malice” standard. A public official seeking damages for a false statement concerning official conduct must prove that the defendant knew the statement was false or acted with reckless disregard for whether it was true or false—for example, by publishing despite serious doubts about its truth. “Malice” here does not mean hatred or ill will in the ordinary sense; it describes a subjective state of mind concerning truth or falsity. The Court recognized that errors are inevitable in public debate. If every innocent mistake could lead to catastrophic damages, the safest course would be to say nothing at all.

The Court later drew further distinctions in Gertz v. Robert Welch, Inc., treating public officials, public figures, and private individuals differently. Private individuals usually lack comparable access to channels of communication with which to defend themselves, and they may never have voluntarily entered a public controversy. In defamation cases involving matters of public concern, states may therefore permit private individuals to recover under a standard lower than actual malice, such as negligence, but may not impose liability without fault. Without proof of actual malice, a plaintiff generally must also prove actual injury and may not recover presumed or punitive damages.

United States v. Alvarez (2012) pushed the issue further. Xavier Alvarez falsely claimed at a public meeting that he had received the Congressional Medal of Honor. The federal government convicted him under the Stolen Valor Act. Six justices ultimately agreed that the law was unconstitutional, although they did not share a single rationale. The statute effectively criminalized almost any lie about military decorations without asking whether the speaker had sought money or another benefit, or requiring proof of concrete harm. The opinions supporting the judgment refused to treat falsity alone as the basis for a broad new category of unprotected speech. Congress responded in 2013 with a narrower law that applies to fraudulent claims about certain military decorations made with the intent to obtain money, property, or another tangible benefit. The same falsehood may therefore have a very different legal character when used for idle boasting rather than fraud.

In short, the law ordinarily punishes not falsity in the abstract, but the relationship between a falsehood and a concrete harm. Perjury damages the judicial process; fraud causes financial loss; defamation harms a particular person’s reputation; false statements to the government obstruct administration. Those additional consequences provide the firmer justification for punishment.

Expression and Incidental Conduct

So far, the discussion has concerned expression that may be punished because of its content. In real life, however, expression is often bound up with conduct: a march occupies a road, a concert creates noise, burning an object may cause a fire, and posting signs may obstruct traffic. The First Amendment protects expression, but it does not immunize every act that accompanies it.

One of the leading cases is United States v. O’Brien. In 1966, antiwar protester David O’Brien burned his draft card outside a courthouse, deliberately displaying the act to onlookers as an expression of opposition to the Vietnam War. The federal government convicted him under a law prohibiting the knowing destruction of draft cards. Two years later, the Supreme Court upheld the conviction. Draft cards were part of the Selective Service system, and the government’s interest in requiring people to preserve them was unrelated to suppressing antiwar ideas. When a regulation primarily addresses conduct but incidentally burdens expression, it must fall within the government’s constitutional power, further an important or substantial governmental interest, rest on an interest unrelated to the suppression of expression, and impose no greater incidental restriction on First Amendment freedoms than is essential to further that interest.

This provides a useful contrast with Texas v. Johnson. In a flag-burning case, the government may enforce a generally applicable fire regulation against anything burned in a no-fire zone, and it may punish damage to another person’s property. Such laws protect public safety and property rights. But if the law permits the dignified disposal of a worn flag while prohibiting only a burning that communicates political contempt, what it truly protects is not safety or property, but an officially approved attitude toward the flag.

Similar principles apply in public spaces. In Ward v. Rock Against Racism (1989), New York City sought to control the volume of concerts in Central Park by requiring performers to use sound equipment and technicians supplied by the city. The Supreme Court upheld the policy and explained the requirements for regulating the time, place, and manner of expression in a public forum: a restriction must be content neutral, serve a significant governmental interest, not be substantially broader than necessary, and leave open ample alternative channels for communication. Freedom of speech does not mean that anyone may speak at any time, in any place, and at any volume. The government may regulate the conduct accompanying expression, but it may not use that authority to suppress viewpoints it dislikes.

Prior Restraint

After considering restrictions on speech and on the conduct accompanying it, we can turn to the methods by which government restricts expression. Government may regulate speech to some extent in order to protect public order and the rights of others, but the means of regulation must themselves be constrained. Otherwise, the protection of free speech would mean very little. Of all the methods available to government, prior restraint deserves the greatest suspicion.

Near v. Minnesota (1931) involved a disreputable, antisemitic newspaper. Relying on a public-nuisance law, Minnesota obtained an injunction restricting the newspaper from publishing further “malicious, scandalous and defamatory” articles. The Supreme Court held the injunction unconstitutional and established a principle: government action that prevents expression before publication begins with a heavy presumption against its constitutional validity. Even if a publisher has defamed someone in the past, that does not entitle the government to review and suppress everything the publisher might say in the future.

Forty years later, the Pentagon Papers case, New York Times Co. v. United States, carried that principle into national security. In 1971, The New York Times and The Washington Post prepared to publish a secret government study of the Vietnam War. The Nixon administration sought injunctions, arguing that publication would damage national security. The Supreme Court ruled against the government by a vote of 6–3. The decision did not hold that the press may publish every secret without consequence. It answered a narrower question: may the government invoke “national security” in general terms and prevent two newspapers from publishing before the public can see the reporting? The Court’s answer was no. The burden rested on the government, and it was extraordinarily heavy.

The fundamental difference between subsequent liability and prior restraint is who bears the cost of error. In a later prosecution or civil action, the government or plaintiff must prove the elements of the alleged offense or tort in a concrete case. Prior restraint, by contrast, may ensure that the public never learns what was suppressed. It is not absolutely unconstitutional in every conceivable circumstance, but it bears an exceptionally heavy burden of justification.

The Central Question of Free Speech

After all these cases, one point becomes clear: the boundary of free speech in the United States is not a single bright line. It is closer to a sequence of increasingly specific questions. And the central concern of American free-speech law may be something more complicated than simply allowing more people to speak.

It reflects an institutional distrust of government power. Government unquestionably has authority to govern society, but that authority must be constrained. The boundary of free speech is therefore not merely a question of “May I say this?” It is a question of “May the government stop me from saying this?” For more than a century, that is the question the Supreme Court has continued to explore.

Cases Discussed

• 1919 — Schenck v. United States: Introduced the “clear and present danger” test and upheld punishment for anti-draft leaflets during wartime
• 1931 — Near v. Minnesota: Established a strong presumption against the constitutionality of prior restraints
• 1942 — Chaplinsky v. New Hampshire: Articulated the fighting-words doctrine
• 1964 — New York Times Co. v. Sullivan: Required public officials suing over statements concerning official conduct to prove actual malice
• 1968 — United States v. O’Brien: Established the framework for content-neutral laws that incidentally burden expressive conduct
• 1969 — Brandenburg v. Ohio: Limited punishable incitement to advocacy intended and likely to produce imminent lawless action
• 1969 — Watts v. United States: Distinguished crude political hyperbole from a true threat
• 1971 — Cohen v. California: Held that the government may not punish political expression merely because it is vulgar and offensive
• 1971 — New York Times Co. v. United States: The Pentagon Papers case, in which the government failed to justify a prior restraint on publication
• 1974 — Gertz v. Robert Welch, Inc.: Distinguished the defamation standards applicable to public figures and private individuals
• 1989 — Ward v. Rock Against Racism: Refined the requirements for content-neutral time, place, and manner restrictions
• 1989 — Texas v. Johnson: Held that the government may not punish flag burning merely because its political message is offensive
• 2003 — Virginia v. Black: Permitted states to prohibit cross burning intended to intimidate, but rejected an automatic presumption of intimidating intent
• 2011 — Snyder v. Phelps: Protected deeply offensive protest speech on matters of public concern delivered in a public place
• 2012 — United States v. Alvarez: Rejected falsity alone as the basis for a broad new category of unprotected speech
• 2023 — Counterman v. Colorado: Required at least conscious disregard of a substantial risk that speech would be perceived as threatening

Key Concepts

• State action — The First Amendment primarily restrains federal, state, and local governments; private actors are directly bound only in limited circumstances when their conduct is attributable to the government
• Imminent lawless action — To punish incitement, the government must show that the speaker intended to incite unlawful action, that the action was imminent, and that the speech was likely to produce it
• Fighting words — Face-to-face personal abuse likely to provoke an immediate violent response; the Supreme Court has confined the doctrine to a very narrow scope
• True threat — A communication that conveys a threat of violence toward an individual or group in context; the government must also show that the speaker consciously disregarded a substantial risk that the communication would be perceived as threatening
• Actual malice — A subjective defamation standard requiring knowledge of falsity or reckless disregard for truth or falsity; it does not mean hatred in the ordinary sense
• Content-neutral regulation — Government regulation of expressive conduct based on interests unrelated to viewpoint, such as fire safety, noise, or traffic; the restriction may not be substantially broader than necessary and must leave open ample alternative channels of communication
• Prior restraint — An injunction or other review mechanism that prevents expression before publication; it ordinarily bears an exceptionally heavy burden of constitutional justification

Related Reading

• Reasoned Talk 12｜Is Burning the American Flag a Crime? The Judicial Battle over the First Amendment
• Remaking America’s “Second Constitution”: The Fourteenth Amendment’s Turbulent Century
• Reasoned Talk 08｜The Supreme Court in the Cracks: The Birth of Judicial Review in the United States

This is the translated transcript of episode 12 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode audio is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On August 22, 1984, the Republican National Convention was under way in Dallas, Texas. President Ronald Reagan was about to receive his party’s nomination for a second term. Outside the convention, more than one hundred demonstrators protested the Reagan administration and the policies of several local corporations. Some lay down in the street to simulate the aftermath of nuclear war; others spray-painted walls and knocked over planters.

Among the demonstrators was a young man named Gregory Lee Johnson. He took an American flag from another protester. When the procession reached Dallas City Hall, Johnson unfurled the flag, soaked it in kerosene, and set it on fire.

As the flames rose, the demonstrators chanted: “America, the red, white, and blue—we spit on you.” No one was injured, although several witnesses later testified that the burning deeply offended them. After the protest ended, one witness quietly gathered the charred remains of the flag and buried them in his backyard.

Texas charged Johnson under section 42.09 of its penal code with desecration of a venerated object. He was sentenced to one year in prison and fined $2,000.

The case traveled all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court and became one of the most controversial decisions in American constitutional history: Texas v. Johnson.

Is Flag Burning “Speech”?

Thirty-seven years after the 1989 decision, the controversy remains unsettled. The political left and right continue to fight over it, and both Congress and the Supreme Court have been drawn into the struggle. As recently as 2025, President Donald Trump signed an executive order that sought a path around the ruling.

The central question is easy to state and extraordinarily difficult to answer: when someone burns a flag to express a political view, may the government imprison him because he has wounded public sentiment?

The question begins with the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution:

Congress may not establish a religion or prohibit its free exercise; abridge freedom of speech or of the press; or deny the people the right to assemble peacefully and petition the government for redress.

Everything therefore turns on whether burning a flag falls within the amendment’s protection of “speech.”

During the 1984 demonstration in Dallas, Johnson damaged no property and caused no disorder apart from burning the flag. Other demonstrators painted walls and overturned planters, but Johnson alone was criminally charged, and his only charge was desecration of a venerated object. That detail matters. Texas did not prosecute him for disorderly conduct or arson. The sole issue was the nature of the act of flag burning itself.

Johnson’s conviction rested on section 42.09(a)(3) of the Texas Penal Code:

A person commits an offense if he intentionally or knowingly desecrates a state or national flag.

Subsection (b) further defined desecration:

“Desecrate” means to deface, damage, or otherwise physically mistreat the object in a way the actor knows will seriously offend one or more persons likely to observe or discover his action.

The law contained an unusual element: the actor had to know that the conduct would cause serious offense. Merely damaging a flag did not necessarily constitute the crime. The state also had to prove that the defendant knew his treatment of the flag would seriously offend someone likely to witness or discover it.

In other words, the law did not target the physical consequences of the act. It targeted the audience’s response to the message conveyed by the act: you expressed contempt for the flag, the audience was offended, and therefore you committed a crime. In substance, the statute imposed a content-based restriction. It punished the offensive message carried by the burning.

Two Decisions in the Texas Courts

The trial court convicted Johnson under this law. He appealed to the Texas Fifth Court of Appeals, which affirmed the conviction in 1986. The court acknowledged that Johnson intended a political message, but concluded that Texas’s interest in preserving the flag’s symbolic meaning outweighed his right to express it. The flag’s exceptional status, in the court’s view, justified a limit on expression.

Johnson appealed again. In 1988, the case reached the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, the state’s highest criminal court. This time, the result changed.

The court held that Johnson’s burning of the flag was expression protected by the First Amendment. It relied on the Supreme Court’s 1943 decision in West Virginia State Board of Education v. Barnette. During the Second World War, West Virginia required all public-school students to salute the flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Jehovah’s Witnesses refused because they regarded the salute as a form of idolatry forbidden by their faith. The students were expelled, and their parents faced criminal prosecution.

The Supreme Court ruled for the families by a vote of 6–3. One passage became a foundation of American free-speech law:

If there is any fixed star in our constitutional constellation, it is that no official, high or petty, may prescribe what is orthodox in politics, nationalism, religion, or other matters of opinion, or compel citizens to profess their faith by word or act.

The government, in other words, may not compel patriotism. Patriotism must be voluntary; loyalty manufactured by force is not genuine loyalty.

The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals built on Barnette. A law against desecrating venerated objects, it reasoned, prescribed the “correct” attitude toward the flag: a person could treat it only with respect, never with contempt. That amounted to compelling respect for the flag and declaring one approved belief about a national symbol.

The court also noted that no violence or disorder had actually occurred. No one was hurt or threatened with physical injury. Serious offense is not the same as incitement to violence. Texas already had public-order laws for genuine threats; it did not need to punish offensive expression to preserve the peace. In 1988, the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals reversed Johnson’s conviction.

The Supreme Court’s Three-Step Analysis

Texas petitioned the U.S. Supreme Court for review. The Court accepted the case in late 1988. On June 21, 1989, the justices voted 5–4 to affirm the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals’ judgment overturning Johnson’s conviction.

It was another sharply divided decision.

Two members of the majority were especially striking. Justices Antonin Scalia and Anthony Kennedy, both Reagan appointees commonly regarded as conservatives, did not side with the defense of national dignity. They instead joined the judgment protecting Johnson’s freedom of expression. Why?

Justice William Brennan wrote the majority opinion. Its central logic can be divided into three steps.

First: did Johnson’s act of burning the flag qualify as “speech”?

Speech under the First Amendment does not mean only words spoken aloud. The amendment protects expression, including conduct that communicates.

In the 1974 case Spence v. Washington, the Supreme Court articulated an important approach to expressive conduct. Did the actor intend to communicate a particular message? And, in the surrounding circumstances, was the audience likely to understand it? When conduct is meant to convey a message that observers can grasp, it can become symbolic speech protected by the First Amendment.

Johnson burned the flag during the Republican National Convention, in a demonstration against the Reagan administration. The political meaning of his action was unmistakable. He used conduct to communicate.

Second: what, precisely, did the Texas statute seek to punish?

The Court concluded that the statute punished the content of expression. Its critical element—knowledge that the act would seriously offend others—focused not on physical danger, but on how observers reacted to the message. Burning a worn-out flag for disposal could be lawful; burning the same flag to protest the government could be a crime. The law distinguished between the attitudes expressed by the two acts.

Put plainly, Texas was not protecting the flag’s physical integrity. It was protecting the flag’s symbolic dignity. That was exactly the kind of rule the First Amendment forbids. The government may not punish expression merely because it offends.

Third: could the flag’s symbolic importance outweigh an individual’s freedom of speech?

The Court held that the government could not imprison a speaker merely because his message might anger those who saw it. Otherwise, the most outraged audience would acquire a practical veto: by displaying enough anger, spectators could force the government to suppress a view they disliked.

Brennan’s answer was that the flag’s special place should be preserved by persuading those who disagreed, not by punishing them. The response to a bad idea was more speech, not compelled silence.

He went further. The government could not “consecrate” the flag through punishment, because doing so would weaken the freedom the flag represents. The flag deserves respect precisely because the country it symbolizes permits a person to burn it. If that country imprisons someone for burning the flag, it has betrayed the value the flag is supposed to embody.

The argument was powerful. It was also deeply uncomfortable.

Justice Kennedy understood this better than anyone. He wrote separately to explain why, despite hating flag desecration personally, he voted to protect it.

Sometimes judges must make decisions they do not like. They do so because those decisions are right: under their understanding of the Constitution and the law, no other conclusion is possible.

Kennedy acknowledged that the ruling would anger many Americans and appear to defy public feeling. That burden was part of a judge’s duty. Personal preference could not stand above the Constitution. Sometimes the Constitution requires us to accept the very thing we find most difficult to accept emotionally.

Why Four Justices Dissented

Chief Justice William Rehnquist wrote the principal dissent. His central claim was that the flag is not an ordinary prop for expression. Across more than two centuries, the American flag had carried the nation’s unity and common ideals. It was a unique national symbol, and the government was entitled to protect it from public desecration.

Burning the flag before a crowd while chanting insults, he argued, was different from publishing an article criticizing the government. The former was a direct attack on a national symbol, and the state could prohibit it.

Justice John Paul Stevens wrote a separate dissent comparing the flag to an “intangible national asset.” It represented the country’s history and unity and possessed exceptional value. The government therefore had reason to protect it against overt contempt. Stevens emphasized that the Texas law prohibited flag mistreatment of the most obvious kind, not every misuse or improper handling. Ordinary citizens, he thought, could understand the boundary: one could not deliberately burn the flag in public to humiliate the country.

Both dissents carried emotional force. Rehnquist appealed to history and sacrifice; Stevens to national symbolism and public feeling. They also explain why the case remains so divisive. The majority’s reasoning was internally coherent, but it demanded acceptance of a profoundly unsettling result.

Scalia and Kennedy, the two conservative justices in the majority, chose the Constitution over their personal reactions. That choice followed from what they understood judicial duty to require.

Congress Responds with Legislation and Amendment

When Johnson’s conviction was overturned, public opposition surged.

Polling after the decision suggested that most Americans rejected the result. Members of both parties in Congress denounced the Court. President George H. W. Bush called flag burning “dead wrong” and urged a constitutional amendment that would overturn the rule established by the decision.

Congress acted quickly. In 1989, only months after Johnson, it passed the Flag Protection Act by overwhelming majorities. The law made it a federal crime knowingly to mutilate, deface, physically defile, burn, or trample a flag, except when disposing of one that had become worn or soiled.

This time Congress omitted language such as “casts contempt” and avoided the Texas statute’s requirement that the actor know the conduct would cause serious offense. It attempted to prohibit the objective act of damaging a flag and thereby make the law content neutral.

The Supreme Court was not persuaded.

Soon after the Flag Protection Act took effect, protesters in Washington, D.C., and Seattle burned flags to challenge it. One group set several American flags alight on the steps of the U.S. Capitol. The cases reached the Supreme Court together, most famously as United States v. Eichman.

On June 11, 1990, the Court again voted 5–4, holding the Flag Protection Act unconstitutional. Congress argued that the statute no longer depended on the protester’s political viewpoint and was therefore content neutral. The Court found the same defect that had doomed the Texas law: the act permitted burning a worn or soiled flag, yet prohibited burning a flag to communicate political dissatisfaction.

What the government truly protected was not the flag’s physical integrity in every setting. It protected the flag from an insulting message. That distinction showed that the law cared not about the objective act of burning, but about what the burning communicated. A statute that punished conduct expressing disrespect while permitting conduct expressing respect remained a content-based restriction.

Brennan restated the governing principle in Eichman:

The government may not prohibit an idea merely because society finds the idea itself offensive.

Congress did not give up. If ordinary legislation could not overcome the First Amendment, it would try to amend the Constitution.

Congress repeatedly proposed amendments authorizing a ban on flag desecration. Amending the U.S. Constitution requires a two-thirds vote in each house of Congress followed by ratification in three-fourths of the states. No flag-protection amendment has crossed that threshold.

The closest attempt came in 2006. The Senate voted 66 in favor and 34 against—one vote short of the required two-thirds majority. Almost every Republican senator supported the amendment, while Democrats divided. Since then, members of Congress have occasionally introduced similar proposals, but none has approached the same momentum.

The 2025 Executive Order and the Carey Case

On August 25, 2025, President Trump signed Executive Order 14341, directing the federal government to intensify investigation and prosecution connected to flag burning.

The order did not create a new crime. Instead, it instructed the Justice Department to prioritize enforcement of existing, content-neutral laws when flag burning accompanied some independent offense. Arson, property destruction, violence, or a separate hate crime could be prosecuted under the relevant statute. Possible violations of local open-burning rules, disorderly-conduct laws, or property protections could be referred to state or local authorities.

Another provision attracted even more attention. It directed the secretaries of state and homeland security and the attorney general, acting within existing law, to consider revoking visas, ending residence or naturalization proceedings, denying other immigration benefits, or removing foreign nationals who burned the flag. The order itself could not strip anyone of citizenship or immigration status. The government would still need a specific basis in existing law.

The order faced a direct challenge on the day it was signed. Jay Carey, an Army veteran, went to Lafayette Square near the White House, set an American flag on fire, and openly declared that he was protesting the new order.

Carey was arrested and later charged with two federal misdemeanors: lighting a fire in an undesignated area of a national park and damaging park property. Prosecutors did not charge the act of flag burning itself. They relied on a content-neutral National Park Service fire rule—the enforcement route contemplated by the executive order.

Carey argued that his conduct was a political protest protected by the First Amendment. In March 2026, the Justice Department dismissed both charges without publicly explaining why. Once the prosecution ended, the courts had no occasion to review the case, and this challenge would not carry the executive order to the Supreme Court.

The episode exposed the order’s legal dilemma. The government may punish an offense independent of a message without violating the First Amendment. But if conduct that ordinarily goes unenforced suddenly draws severe punishment only because the object burned is a flag, supposedly content-neutral enforcement may itself come under First Amendment scrutiny.

Why the Constitution Protects Uncomfortable Expression

Thirty-seven years later, many people still cannot accept the result. To them, a flag is not an ordinary piece of cloth. It carries national history, shared identity, and the meaning of countless sacrifices. Yet its importance is precisely why the Court had to answer a harder question: when collective reverence conflicts with individual expression, may the government use its power to suppress the latter in order to protect the former?

The Supreme Court’s answer was that the Constitution stands with freedom of expression. Once the government is permitted to create a speech exception for one “sacred” symbol, it may create another exception for the next sacred object.

Johnson’s decision to set fire to a flag was crude and profoundly offensive in virtually any cultural setting. You are free to think that Johnson was an asshole. The point of a constitution, however, is that it protects even an asshole’s right to speak.

If constitutional protection extended only to speech that made people comfortable, no constitution would be necessary. The First Amendment matters most for speech that leaves the majority angry, offended, or unsettled.

The closing thought of Brennan’s 5–4 opinion still echoes:

Painful though it may be, the flag protects those who hold it in contempt.

Key Figures

• Gregory Lee Johnson — The protester who burned an American flag during the 1984 Republican National Convention in Dallas. He was the criminal defendant and the respondent before the Supreme Court. Initially sentenced to one year in prison and fined $2,000, he ultimately prevailed.
• William Brennan — Associate justice of the U.S. Supreme Court from 1956 to 1990 and author of the majority opinion in Texas v. Johnson. He was known for his defense of freedom of expression.
• Antonin Scalia — Associate justice from 1986 to 2016, a Reagan-appointed conservative known for textualism and originalism. He joined Brennan’s majority opinion in Johnson without writing separately.
• Anthony Kennedy — Associate justice from 1988 to 2018, a Reagan appointee generally regarded as moderately conservative. He joined the majority and wrote a separate concurrence.
• William Rehnquist — The sixteenth chief justice of the United States, serving from 1986 to 2005. He wrote the principal dissent and argued that the flag was a unique national symbol.
• John Paul Stevens — Associate justice from 1975 to 2010. His separate dissent compared the flag to an intangible national asset.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Texas v. Johnson — The Supreme Court held 5–4 that politically motivated flag burning in this case was expression protected by the First Amendment. The government could not impose criminal punishment merely because the public found the message offensive.
• Symbolic speech — Conduct used to communicate a political or social message. The approach associated with Spence v. Washington considers the actor’s communicative purpose and the likelihood that observers will understand the message.
• Content-based restriction and neutral regulation — A law aimed at a message, such as one punishing offensive expression, faces the most demanding constitutional review. Rules governing fire, property, or the time, place, and manner of conduct without regard to a message may be treated differently.
• West Virginia State Board of Education v. Barnette — The decision establishing that government may not compel citizens to salute the flag or profess a prescribed political belief. It became a foundation of protection for symbolic expression.
• United States v. Eichman — The Supreme Court again voted 5–4 to invalidate the Flag Protection Act of 1989, reaffirming that the government could not use protection of the flag’s physical integrity as a pretext for suppressing a political message.
• Executive Order 14341 — The order directing the Justice Department to enforce existing content-neutral laws against independent offenses accompanying flag burning and instructing federal officials to consider immigration measures against foreign nationals where authorized by law.
• The Carey case — Jay Carey burned a flag near the White House to protest Executive Order 14341. Prosecutors charged two misdemeanors under National Park Service rules, then dismissed both charges in March 2026.

Related Episodes

• 08 The Supreme Court in a Tight Corner: The Birth of Judicial Review in the United States
• 10 You Have the Right to Remain Silent: How the Miranda Warning Changed American Justice

On the afternoon of May 17, 1954, in Washington, D.C., the nine Justices of the Supreme Court filed into the courtroom. The newly appointed Chief Justice, Earl Warren, picked up an opinion and began to read.

The decision was only eleven pages long, yet it profoundly changed American history. Warren wrote:

Separating Black children from others of similar age and qualifications solely because of race creates a sense of inferiority about their place in society. That feeling may affect their hearts and minds in ways that may never be undone.

At the end of the opinion, the Court rejected in one concise sentence a policy that had endured for more than half a century:

In public education, the doctrine of “separate but equal” has no place. Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal.

This was Brown v. Board of Education, one of the most important decisions in American constitutional history. It destroyed the constitutional foundation of racial segregation in public schools. Of course, one judicial opinion did not make segregation disappear overnight. Southern states resisted for years afterward. But from that day on, the legal legitimacy of segregated public schools was gone.

The constitutional text supporting that decision was the celebrated Fourteenth Amendment.

I have mentioned the Fourteenth Amendment repeatedly in previous episodes because it is the foundation of birthright citizenship in the United States. Yet its significance reaches far beyond birthright citizenship. Some have called it America’s “Second Constitution,” and it was one of the most important achievements of the country’s “Second Founding” after the Civil War.

Here, we will take a broader look at how the Supreme Court used the Fourteenth Amendment to extend protections that had originally constrained mainly the federal government to the states, and how the Amendment became the basis for vital individual rights involving racial equality, free speech, and abortion.

“No State Shall”: How Individual Rights Came to Bind the States

The Fourteenth Amendment was one of the Civil War’s most important legacies. After the war, the Reconstruction Congress adopted the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments, collectively known as the Reconstruction Amendments. The Thirteenth abolished slavery, the Fifteenth protected the voting rights of Black men, and the Fourteenth sought to redefine how civil rights would be protected.

The Citizenship Clause discussed in earlier episodes is only the first sentence of Section One. The second sentence is our focus here:

No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

The subject of this sentence is “No State shall.” That wording is crucial.

The Bill of Rights, ratified in 1791 as the first ten amendments to the Constitution, originally constrained the federal government. The First Amendment, for example, begins, “Congress shall make no law.” In 1833, the Supreme Court further confirmed in Barron v. Baltimore that the Fifth Amendment’s protection of property did not apply to state governments. In other words, before the Fourteenth Amendment, ordinary citizens generally could not invoke the Bill of Rights against a state. A state could restrict certain civil liberties, and the federal courts ordinarily could not intervene on the strength of the Bill of Rights alone.

The Fourteenth Amendment changed that structure. Its subject was “No State,” not “Congress.” From then on, state legislatures, executive officials, and courts could all face federal review for infringing individual rights. The Amendment nationalized the protection of those rights and empowered federal courts to apply constitutional standards vertically throughout the states.

This is a major reason the Fourteenth Amendment is called a “Second Constitution.” The original Constitution of 1787 primarily addressed how the federal government would be formed and how powers would be divided among its institutions. The Fourteenth Amendment of 1868 answered a different question: what lines may a state government never cross in its treatment of individuals?

Writing a rule into the Constitution, however, is one thing; enforcing it is another. The Supreme Court’s cases show how this “Second Constitution” gradually became effective through litigation.

The Slaughter-House Cases: The Privileges or Immunities Clause Locked Shut

Our first decision is the Slaughter-House Cases, which created the first major obstacle to the implementation of the Fourteenth Amendment.

In 1873, only five years after the Amendment was ratified, the Supreme Court confronted a pivotal dispute. Louisiana had passed a law granting one company a monopoly over the slaughterhouse business in New Orleans. Hundreds of independent butchers sued the state, arguing that the law violated the Fourteenth Amendment’s Privileges or Immunities Clause. They claimed that the freedom to choose one’s occupation was a privilege or immunity of American citizenship that a state could not arbitrarily take away.

On its face, this seemed to be the most direct provision for protecting citizens’ rights:

No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States.

The Supreme Court nevertheless rejected the butchers’ claims by a vote of 5–4. In the majority opinion, Justice Samuel Miller divided citizenship into two levels: citizenship of the United States and citizenship of a state. He reasoned that the Privileges or Immunities Clause protected only a limited set of rights arising from the federal government, the federal Constitution, or the national character of the Union—for example, access to the seat of the federal government and federal protection on the high seas. Everyday rights involving occupation, contract, and property, by contrast, generally remained matters of state citizenship.

The consequences were severe. The Court interpreted a clause that appeared to offer direct protection for fundamental rights almost out of existence. Under the American common-law tradition, Supreme Court precedent binds later cases. After Slaughter-House, an ordinary person challenging a state’s violation of fundamental rights in federal court could almost never rely directly on the Privileges or Immunities Clause.

The Fourteenth Amendment had just built a front door for individual rights. Five years later, the Supreme Court locked it. Later courts wishing to use the Amendment to constrain state governments would have to find another entrance.

Selective Incorporation: Making the Bill of Rights Binding on the States

That new entrance was the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment:

No State shall deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law.

The most straightforward reading treats this as a procedural rule. A government may lawfully restrict liberty, take property, or even deprive someone of life, but before doing so it must provide appropriate notice, a hearing, and an opportunity to be heard. This is what we now call procedural due process. Its primary concern is not whether the government’s ultimate decision was correct, but whether the process by which it reached that decision was fair.

Once the Slaughter-House Cases had blocked the Privileges or Immunities Clause, however, courts gradually gave the Due Process Clause additional functions. The word “liberty,” in particular, became one of the most important and controversial concepts in American constitutional law.

The rights protections developed from the Due Process Clause broadly followed two paths. The first is selective incorporation; the second is substantive due process. The two concepts are often conflated, but they address different questions.

First, selective incorporation.

To “incorporate” a right is to make a protection in the Bill of Rights—originally binding only on the federal government—applicable to the states through the Fourteenth Amendment. The right must already be expressly stated in the constitutional text. The Court asks whether it is “fundamental to the American scheme of justice” and “deeply rooted in this Nation’s history and tradition.” If so, the Court incorporates it through the Fourteenth Amendment. State and federal governments then face the same standard; there is no diluted “state version” of the right.

In 1925, Gitlow v. New York marked an early step toward incorporating freedom of speech against the states. In 1961, Mapp v. Ohio applied the exclusionary rule to them. In 1963, Gideon v. Wainwright held that indigent defendants charged with felonies have a right to appointed counsel. In 2010, McDonald v. Chicago applied the Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms to the states.

Today, most of the protections in the Bill of Rights apply to state governments through selective incorporation. The process has taken more than a century, extending federal constitutional standards across the country one right at a time.

Substantive Due Process: From Freedom of Contract to Marriage and Abortion

The Due Process Clause also opened a second, bolder, and more controversial path: substantive due process.

As we have seen, the clause provides that no state may deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. Life and property refer to relatively concrete interests and leave less room for interpretation. “Liberty,” however, is far more open-ended. To protect rights not expressly named in the Constitution, the Supreme Court began interpreting the concept expansively, placing within it rights such as married couples’ access to contraception, same-sex marriage, and a woman’s decision to have an abortion.

The distinction between selective incorporation and substantive due process is therefore clear. The former extends to the states a right already written into the Constitution. The latter identifies, within the word “liberty,” a new kind of right not expressly enumerated in the constitutional text.

Substantive due process was first applied on a large scale in the economic sphere. In Lochner v. New York (1905), the Supreme Court placed “liberty of contract” under the Fourteenth Amendment’s protection and struck down a state law limiting bakers’ working hours. Over the following decades, the Court repeatedly invoked contractual and property liberty to scrutinize state labor protections and economic regulations. This period, during which the federal courts tended to favor business owners, became known as the “Lochner era.”

The tide began to turn during the New Deal. In West Coast Hotel Co. v. Parrish (1937), the Court held that freedom of contract was not absolute and that government could reasonably regulate economic activity to protect workers and the public interest. Economic substantive due process then gradually declined.

The doctrine next moved into marriage, family life, and personal autonomy. Griswold v. Connecticut (1965) recognized the right of married couples to use contraception. In 2015, Obergefell v. Hodges recognized the right to same-sex marriage.

Its most controversial expansion came in Roe v. Wade (1973). By a vote of 7–2, the Supreme Court held that, within certain limits, a woman’s decision to terminate a pregnancy fell within the liberty protected by the Fourteenth Amendment. The decision affected the lives of two generations of Americans and made substantive due process one of the fiercest battlegrounds in American politics.

Critics argued that the Justices appeared to be interpreting constitutional “liberty” while in fact writing their own value judgments into the Constitution. Supporters responded that if the Constitution could protect only fundamental liberties expressly named in its text and could never develop with the times, people long excluded from political power would never receive constitutional protection.

In 2022, Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization overruled Roe. By a 6–3 vote, the Court upheld Mississippi’s abortion restriction. The majority concluded that a right to abortion was not “deeply rooted in this Nation’s history and tradition,” did not qualify as a fundamental right protected by the Fourteenth Amendment, and should be returned to the states for democratic resolution.

Dobbs did not end the debate. On the contrary, it brought a more fundamental question back to the surface: how far should courts go in protecting rights that the Constitution does not name? Is “history and tradition” an objective standard, or is it simply another interpretive method that requires value judgments?

The debate over abortion and substantive due process deserves an episode of its own.

Equal Protection: From “Separate but Equal” to Affirmative Action

After due process comes the final sentence of Section One, the Equal Protection Clause:

No State shall deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

In 1896, Plessy v. Ferguson left a grave stain on this clause. By a vote of 7–1, the Supreme Court upheld Louisiana’s racial segregation policy, reasoning that the state could separate people by race without violating the Constitution so long as it nominally provided equal facilities for each race. This became the infamous doctrine of “separate but equal.”

Justice John Marshall Harlan was the only dissenter. He argued that the Constitution should tolerate no class distinctions among citizens. At the time, however, his view did not prevail.

It was not until Brown v. Board of Education, fifty-eight years later, that the Supreme Court formally overruled “separate but equal” in public education. Chief Justice Warren announced for the Court that separating students solely by race imposed an unequal legal status; separate educational facilities were inherently unequal.

Plessy and Brown applied the same constitutional clause but reached opposite results. This shows that equal protection does not simply require government to treat everyone identically. Government can classify people according to certain criteria and sometimes treat those groups differently. The difficult question is which classifications are reasonable and which create hierarchy and discrimination.

This problem became especially visible in affirmative action. After desegregation, the United States began adopting affirmative-action policies in the 1960s. Some universities considered applicants’ race during admissions to increase minority enrollment. Supporters regarded this as a remedy for historical discrimination; opponents argued that, whatever the purpose, government should never again distinguish among individuals by race.

In Students for Fair Admissions, Inc. v. President and Fellows of Harvard College (2023), the Supreme Court invalidated the universities’ race-conscious admissions programs by a vote of 6–2 in the Harvard case. Chief Justice Roberts wrote for the majority: “Eliminating racial discrimination means eliminating all of it.”

From Plessy to Brown and then to Students for Fair Admissions, the question before the Court changed. It began as whether states could openly impose racial discrimination. Later, it became whether government could favor minority groups in an effort to remedy historical discrimination. The Court moved from permitting segregation, to opposing it, and then to limiting race-conscious affirmative action. Those shifts reflect not only the evolution of legal doctrine but also subtle changes in the political climate.

Four Doorways to Rights: The Fourteenth Amendment’s Evolution

We can now pause and look at Section One of the Fourteenth Amendment as a whole.

It provides four doorways to rights: birthright citizenship, privileges or immunities, due process, and equal protection. These doorways do not stand in isolation. After the Slaughter-House Cases sharply narrowed the Privileges or Immunities Clause, the Court shifted much of its rights protection to the Due Process Clause. Due process and equal protection also frequently work together.

The story of the Fourteenth Amendment, however, has never been written by the Supreme Court alone. Courts define the boundaries of rights in individual cases; Congress can enact implementing legislation; and the appointment of Justices, as well as the ultimate enforcement of decisions, is shaped by political and social forces.

Across more than 150 years, the Amendment has not followed a straight line of uninterrupted expansion. Its center of gravity has shifted in roughly three stages.

The first was a period of contraction. The Slaughter-House Cases drastically narrowed the Privileges or Immunities Clause, while Plessy tolerated racial segregation. Yet even during a period of overall contraction, the clauses did not all move in the same direction. As discussed in an earlier episode, United States v. Wong Kim Ark established birthright citizenship during this era.

The second was a period of expansion. Through selective incorporation, the Supreme Court extended expressly enumerated rights such as freedom of speech and the right to criminal defense counsel to the states. Through Brown, it abolished racial segregation in public schools. Through substantive due process, it protected marriage, family life, and personal autonomy.

The third is the contemporary period of reconsideration. Dobbs ended nationwide constitutional protection for abortion, while Students for Fair Admissions prohibited universities from favoring minority applicants on the basis of race. The Supreme Court is reassessing which rights should receive uniform national protection and which questions should be returned to the states.

This history also shows that the Fourteenth Amendment’s stability depends on several forces working together. Do rights not expressly written in the Constitution fall within the liberty protected by the Amendment’s Due Process Clause? American society will continue to debate these questions.

Conclusion: Where Will the Fourteenth Amendment Go Next?

Several developments will be worth watching.

First, could rights involving same-sex relationships and same-sex marriage be overturned in a future decision? As American society becomes more conservative and debate over same-sex marriage grows, whether the Supreme Court will reinterpret those rights remains to be seen.

Second, does transgender status constitute a sex-based classification, and what level of equal-protection scrutiny should apply? Disputes over transgender identity, medical care, and sports policy have intensified in recent years. The Supreme Court has begun to enter this field. In United States v. Skrmetti (2025), it upheld Tennessee’s restrictions on certain gender-affirming medical treatments for minors. In West Virginia v. B. P. J. (2026), it held that schools may determine eligibility for women’s and girls’ sports based on biological sex. Even so, major questions remain unresolved, including whether transgender status itself is a suspect or quasi-suspect classification and what standard of review should govern other policies.

Third, after Students for Fair Admissions, universities may not directly treat race as an admissions advantage, but they may consider how an applicant has been affected by racial experience. The boundary between race and individual experience remains exceedingly subtle.

The story of the Fourteenth Amendment is therefore far from over. After more than 150 years of case law, it has become part of the foundational architecture of rights protection in the United States. Yet it is not a self-executing catalogue of rights. It is better understood as an institutional language that is continually interpreted, contested, and revised.

It did not provide every answer at once. It merely opened several doors between the individual and the state. Which door can be opened, and how wide, is determined jointly by congressional legislation, social movements, and generations of judicial decisions.

In the American system, the Supreme Court is often called upon to give the final word. But it can never truly determine the direction of history.

Thank you for reading. If you have questions or thoughts about this article, or would like to hear the full story of any of these cases, please leave a comment. See you next time.

Key Cases Discussed

• 1833 — Barron v. Baltimore: Held that the Bill of Rights generally did not bind state governments.
• 1873 — The Slaughter-House Cases: Narrowly interpreted the Privileges or Immunities Clause, forcing later courts to rely more heavily on the Due Process Clause.
• 1896 — Plessy v. Ferguson: Upheld racial segregation under the doctrine of “separate but equal.”
• 1898 — United States v. Wong Kim Ark: Established a broad rule of jus soli citizenship.
• 1905 — Lochner v. New York: Struck down a labor law in the name of freedom of contract, becoming the leading example of economic substantive due process.
• 1925 — Gitlow v. New York: Marked an important early step toward applying freedom of speech to the states.
• 1937 — West Coast Hotel Co. v. Parrish: Rejected an absolute freedom of contract and signaled the end of the Lochner era.
• 1954 — Brown v. Board of Education: Overturned racial segregation in public schools and rejected “separate but equal.”
• 1961 — Mapp v. Ohio: Applied the exclusionary rule to the states.
• 1963 — Gideon v. Wainwright: Recognized the right of indigent felony defendants to appointed counsel.
• 1965 — Griswold v. Connecticut: Protected marital privacy and access to contraception.
• 1973 — Roe v. Wade: Recognized a constitutional right to abortion.
• 2010 — McDonald v. Chicago: Applied the Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms to the states.
• 2015 — Obergefell v. Hodges: Recognized the right to same-sex marriage.
• 2022 — Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization: Returned the regulation of abortion to the states.
• 2023 — Students for Fair Admissions, Inc. v. President and Fellows of Harvard College / University of North Carolina: Severely restricted race-conscious university admissions.
• 2025 — United States v. Skrmetti: Upheld Tennessee’s restrictions on certain gender-affirming medical treatments for minors under rational-basis review.
• 2026 — West Virginia v. B. P. J.: Held that schools may determine eligibility for women’s and girls’ sports based on biological sex.
• 2026 — Trump v. Barbara: Confirmed the citizenship of children born in the United States to parents who are unlawfully or temporarily present.

Key Concepts

• Procedural due process: When government deprives a person of life, liberty, or property, it must provide notice, a hearing, and an opportunity to be heard appropriate to the interest at stake.
• Selective incorporation: The process of incorporating fundamental rights expressly stated in the Constitution into the Fourteenth Amendment and thereby applying them to the states.
• Substantive due process: The doctrine through which courts identify fundamental rights not expressly enumerated in the Constitution within the word “liberty.”
• Three tiers of equal-protection review: Strict scrutiny applies primarily to classifications based on race and national origin; intermediate scrutiny applies primarily to sex and nonmarital parentage; rational-basis review applies to ordinary economic and social classifications.

Related Episodes

• 03: How Trump Challenges the Constitution: The Legal Battle over Birthright Citizenship
• 06: U.S. Birthright Citizenship: Total Victory or Temporary Truce?
• 08: The Supreme Court in the Crevice: The Birth of American Judicial Review

This is the transcript of episode 11 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

One day in November 1873, the twelfth year of the Tongzhi reign, Ge Pinlian, a worker in a tofu shop in Cangqian, Yuhang County, Zhejiang, died at home. His face had turned blue and foam gathered at his mouth. His wife, Bi Xiugu, gave him a bowl of American ginseng broth, but could not save him.

Ge had been sickly since childhood and suffered from an ailment known as “flowing fire.” Two days before his death, he was still working at the tofu shop despite red, swollen knees and bouts of violent shivering. Others urged him to rest at home, but he refused. On his final morning, he was seen staggering alone across Yuhang Bridge, his face blue and his feet dragging. It was the last image he left behind.

At first, no one thought a murder had occurred. His body remained at home awaiting burial. On the following evening, however, pale red fluid seeped from his mouth and nose. Modern forensic medicine would explain this as a consequence of decomposition in warm weather: gases forming inside the body can force residual blood from the nose and mouth. To people at the time, it looked like the mark of poisoning.

Suspicion turned toward his wife. Bi Xiugu had fair skin and liked to wear a white blouse with a green skirt, earning her the neighborhood nickname “Little Cabbage.” A recent rumor claimed that she was having an affair with their landlord, Yang Naiwu—a piece of gossip summed up by the phrase “the sheep eats the cabbage,” a pun on Yang’s surname. Ge’s mother already distrusted her daughter-in-law because of the rumor. When the corpse appeared to show signs of poisoning, she became convinced that Bi and Yang had committed adultery and poisoned her son. She reported them to the authorities.

This was the beginning of the famous Yang Naiwu and Little Cabbage case, later called the foremost of the “Four Great Strange Cases of the Late Qing.” With a single accusation from the dead man’s mother, the case began climbing the judicial hierarchy toward the emperor himself.

An earlier episode examined the late-Qing law reforms, the radical attempt to remake the legal system during the dynasty’s final decade. The Yang Naiwu case occurred more than twenty years before that reform movement and is often treated as a defining example of systemic failure in the traditional judicial order.

An Unwashed Silver Needle

The case began with a silver needle in the hands of a coroner.

After receiving Ge’s mother’s complaint, Liu Xitong, the Yuhang county magistrate, went to the Ge home with an official coroner and one of his own retainers. Their guide was The Washing Away of Wrongs, a traditional manual of forensic procedure. It listed blackened gums, bleeding from the body’s openings, split and everted lips, and blisters as signs of arsenic poisoning. But Ge’s body had already begun to decompose. His face was pale blue, bloody fluid ran from his nose, and fragile blisters had formed on his skin. Distinguishing poison from ordinary decay required exceptional care.

Then came the silver-needle test, familiar from historical dramas: insert a silver needle into the dead man’s throat, withdraw it, and examine the color. What those dramas often omit is an easily neglected preliminary step. The needle was supposed to be washed with soap-pod solution to reduce interference from decomposing matter. The coroner in this case skipped it. He inserted the unwashed needle directly into Ge’s throat and pulled it out dark blue-black. Unable to identify any specific poison, he reported only that Ge had “died after taking poison.”

The magistrate’s retainer, who had no forensic qualifications, immediately declared it arsenic. The coroner was the legally qualified examiner, but coroners belonged to a stigmatized “mean” social category and occupied an extremely low status. He did not dare contradict the magistrate’s man. Liu Xitong had also heard the adultery rumor before the inspection began. He accepted the retainer’s opinion and ordered the coroner to write “death by poison” into the autopsy report.

A procedural failure, interference by an unqualified outsider, and widely circulated gossip had converged. The case already had its conclusion.

Confession, Torture, and a Manufactured Chain of Evidence

Taken to the county yamen, Bi Xiugu initially insisted that she knew nothing about her husband’s death. Under modern criminal procedure, an ambiguous autopsy and neighborhood rumor would not be enough to identify a suspect, much less force her to incriminate herself. Qing justice, however, was built around the centrality of confession and the legal use of judicial torture. A defendant’s confession carried the greatest evidentiary weight. With few effective investigative techniques, torture offered the most direct route to obtaining one. Once “no beating, no confession” became conventional wisdom, confession ceased to be a means of adjudication and became an end in itself.

The Great Qing Code authorized an instrument called the zan, a wooden finger press used on female prisoners. In practice, county and prefectural officials also resorted to punishments the law did not authorize. A later Shenbao report described Bi’s torture in horrific terms, including red-hot wire applied to her breasts and boiling water poured over her back. Scholars continue to dispute these claims; some believe the newspaper embellished them to arouse sympathy and denounce judicial darkness. One point is beyond doubt: Bi endured physical torment severe enough to break a person psychologically.

Under that torment, she finally confessed. Following the magistrate’s suggestions, she invented a complete story: she had begun an affair with Yang the previous April, received a packet of arsenic from him a few days before Ge’s death, and poured it into the ginseng broth that killed her husband.

The case’s other suspect, Yang Naiwu, was born in 1841. Shortly before the case, he had passed the provincial civil-service examination and attended the celebratory Luming banquet. Later newspaper accounts said that Yang avoided cultivating officials, wrote petitions for aggrieved commoners, and turned stories of official-gentry collusion and abuse into songs for the public, thereby offending local authorities. Those reports are not especially reliable, however, and do not prove that the officials acted out of personal revenge.

As soon as Bi confessed, the county yamen summoned Yang. He invoked the procedural privilege attached to his new status as a provincial graduate. Local officials could not torture a degree-holder unless the court first stripped him of his rank. Yang withstood the first interrogation. His advantage did not last. Liu reported through the Hangzhou prefect and Zhejiang governor, seeking revocation of Yang’s degree. The Tongzhi emperor approved the request.

Once stripped of status, Yang lost his protection. The case moved to Hangzhou Prefecture, where Prefect Chen Lu tortured him with leg presses and other instruments. Yang lost consciousness twice, was revived with cold water, and was questioned again. He finally understood that rational denial in that courtroom would only purchase more meaningless pain. He surrendered. He confessed to adultery and poisoning, then invented a source for the poison under further questioning: he claimed to have bought the arsenic from a Cangqian apothecary named “Qian Baosheng.”

Chen Lu instructed Liu Xitong to trace the poison. Yet no druggist named Qian Baosheng existed in Cangqian. There was only a man named Qian Tan. Liu had his legal secretary write to Qian Tan and pressure him to cooperate. A nonexistent “Qian Baosheng” was forced into the record.

The paper chain was now complete: the autopsy report, two confessions, and witness testimony. On the page, every link appeared to close. Chen Lu proposed that Bi Xiugu be executed by lingchi and that Yang Naiwu be decapitated immediately.

Why Five Levels of Review All Failed

This was still only a local recommendation, not a final sentence. The case had to proceed upward, and every level theoretically had a chance to find the errors. Important Qing homicide cases were subject to an elaborate system of successive adjudication, transmission, and review: initial adjudication by the county, a second hearing at the prefecture, a third before the provincial judicial commissioner, and final provincial review by the governor. Each autumn, the central Board of Punishments, joined by the Court of Judicial Review, the Censorate, and senior officials from the six boards, conducted the Autumn Assizes for death sentences submitted from across the empire. In principle, a condemned prisoner passed through five gates, and any one could reverse the case.

The difficulty was that higher officials seldom saw raw facts. They saw files already organized by their subordinates. The same documents were copied and checked again and again. Each additional tier made them look more thoroughly verified, even though no one had returned to the original evidence. The Yang Naiwu case passed upward without ever escaping the framework fixed at the beginning.

The Zhejiang judicial commissioner did personally question Yang and Bi. But he still organized the interrogation around their confessions. He did not ask whether Ge had actually been poisoned or determine that “Qian Baosheng” did not exist. Governor Yang Changjun later dispatched an acting county magistrate to conduct a supposed secret investigation in Yuhang. The investigator did no meaningful work and returned with a perfunctory report that nothing was wrong. Yang Changjun maintained the judgment and formally submitted it to the center.

Why were so many officials reluctant to overturn their subordinates? The Great Qing Code prescribed offenses for official failures such as wrongfully imposing a punishment, conducting a false inspection, and deciding a case carelessly. It also imposed a principle sometimes described as reversal liability for wrongful judgment: if a miscarriage of justice was uncovered, every official who had handled the case, from magistrate to governor, could be punished.

The rule was meant to discipline officials and prevent wrongful convictions. In practice, it created the opposite incentive. Rejecting a subordinate’s judgment meant rejecting the administrative credibility of the entire chain below. Every official became tied to the others. To avoid liability, each person signing a review had reason to preserve the original judgment. Accountability for error became a mechanism for concealing error. Officials had neither an incentive to correct the case nor the courage to do so.

That was the institutional cause of failure. A procedurally elaborate review system coexisted with confession-centered justice, which made torture routine, and reversal liability, which made correction politically suicidal. More layers solved nothing. Five levels of review became an empty journey for paperwork.

Capital Appeals, Gentry Networks, and the Press

The Qing legal order did contain an internal corrective mechanism known as the capital appeal, or jingkong. It allowed people in the provinces to petition central institutions such as the Censorate and the office of the Beijing gendarmerie directly.

Yang Naiwu’s elder sister, Yang Juzhen, believed completely in her brother’s innocence and spent the family’s resources organizing an appeal in Beijing. Her first petition was sent back to Zhejiang for retrial, where officials again affirmed the judgment. Yang’s wife, Madam Zhan, later filed a second capital appeal. Repeated petitions did not immediately change the result, but they kept the case in view at the center.

Sustained litigation required substantial money. The famous “red-topped merchant” Hu Xueyan financed the Yang family’s efforts. One of Yang Naiwu’s old classmates served on Hu’s staff and told him what had happened. Hu immediately agreed to cover all the family’s expenses in Beijing. He also used his own network to support the petitions, relieving the family’s financial burden and connecting it to much more powerful social resources.

A political network of Zhejiang officials in Beijing was equally important. As a newly successful examination candidate, Yang stood within a broader Zhejiang gentry community. Through provincial connections, Yang Juzhen reached Xia Tongshan, then vice minister of war. Xia read a petition Yang had written in blood from prison and erupted in anger: “If this case is not clarified, no one in Zhejiang will ever again devote himself to study and advancement.” He mobilized the political resources available in the capital and brought together eighteen Zhejiang officials to impeach Governor Yang Changjun before the Censorate. Their motive ultimately involved the honor of Zhejiang’s educated elite. Turning a new provincial graduate into a convicted murderer humiliated the entire province.

Another emerging force also mattered: the press, especially the Shanghai-based Shenbao. Beginning with its first report on January 6, 1874, the paper followed the case for more than three years. It published over seventy reports and commentaries, together with the full text of nearly twenty memorials and edicts. The coverage broke local officials’ monopoly over information and created a public sphere that crossed provincial boundaries.

An important qualification is necessary. Popular retellings often say that Shenbao reporting directly forced Empress Dowager Cixi to order a reversal. Scholars caution against giving the press so much power. An absolute monarchy was not going to change a judicial decision simply because a foreign-owned newspaper criticized it. The paper’s influence was indirect. It supplied public legitimacy to Zhejiang officials in Beijing as they impeached the provincial governor, allowing factional conflict to appear as a response to the judgment of the realm. It also gave Cixi a politically useful justification for reopening the case.

A deeper political logic was at work. The Taiping Rebellion had ended only recently, and the Xiang Army network represented by Yang Changjun remained exceptionally powerful in Jiangnan. Cixi had been looking for opportunities to weaken its control. The Yang Naiwu case offered an ideal opening. Collective failure throughout Zhejiang’s official hierarchy allowed the court, under the banner of public opinion, to bypass the judicial authority of provincial governors and bring the case to Beijing.

The Exhumation at Haihui Temple

In October 1875, the first year of the Guangxu reign, Cixi issued an edict ordering all witnesses and evidence transferred to Beijing for direct adjudication by the Board of Punishments. The method of review finally changed. The board did not merely reread the confessions. It confronted suspects, witnesses, and original officials with one another, pursued the source of the poison, reexamined the autopsy, and focused on contradictions throughout the file. It then made the decisive choice to exhume and reexamine Ge Pinlian’s remains.

On January 23, 1877, thousands gathered at Haihui Temple outside Beijing’s Chaoyang Gate; foreign journalists were among them. Sang Chunrong, president of the Board of Punishments, and Vice President Weng Tonghe personally supervised the examination. Liu Xitong and the original coroner were ordered to attend. The seals on Ge’s coffin were broken and the lid opened before the crowd. The remaining soft tissue was removed, and coroners lifted out the bones and examined them one by one. At last, one called out: “All of Ge Pinlian’s bones are yellowish white. There was certainly no poison. He died of illness!”

Liu Xitong’s legs gave way and he fell to his knees. The original coroner signed a confession on the spot, acknowledging that he had failed to wash the needle with soap-pod solution and that the original finding of “death by poison” was false. A supposed “iron case” sustained for four years and through five levels of review collapsed before a skeleton.

Two months later, the Board of Punishments submitted its final memorial to the Guangxu emperor. Yang Naiwu and Bi Xiugu were declared innocent of murder. Bi was nevertheless sentenced to eighty strokes for “failure to observe womanly propriety,” later commuted to a monetary redemption. Yang was assigned one hundred strokes for failing to avoid the appearance of impropriety and for falsely accusing others while imprisoned. Because his degree had already been revoked, the corporal sentence was waived, but his status was never restored. More than thirty Zhejiang officials—including Governor Yang Changjun, Prefect Chen Lu, and Magistrate Liu Xitong—were demoted, dismissed, or exiled.

The Cost After Exoneration

The case had been reversed. Exoneration did not restore what had been taken.

When Yang Naiwu left prison, the leg presses had left him permanently disabled and walking with a limp. His examination degree was gone, and the litigation had ruined his family. Back in Yuhang, he spent the rest of his life raising silkworms and selling silk to survive.

After her release, Bi Xiugu entered a Buddhist convent outside Yuhang’s south gate and took the religious name Huiding. Accounts of her later life dwell on the hands permanently twisted by the finger press.

Posterity has repeatedly told the exoneration as a classic example of late-Qing judicial self-correction. Look closely, however, and every force that made reversal possible came from outside the ordinary judicial process: Yang’s examination status, the provincial network of officials in Beijing, the money of a powerful merchant, and the public pressure generated by a newspaper in the foreign settlement. The five-tier review system prescribed by Qing law accomplished nothing.

Every effective effort also came from Yang Naiwu’s side. Bi Xiugu was a poor woman without degree, property, husband, or support from her husband’s family. She had no independent ability to appeal within the long judicial hierarchy. In an age without enforceable rights, she was rendered voiceless. Her words were swallowed and rewritten. Every attempt to retract her confession was treated as deceit. Every word forced from her under torture became evidence against her.

The case still deserves attention today. Can institutions escape the trap of treating confession as supreme? Can accountability be designed without creating incentives to hide mistakes? Can every future Bi Xiugu be given a voice? These are questions every legal professional should take seriously.

Key Figures

• Yang Naiwu — A newly successful provincial examination candidate from Yuhang County, Zhejiang. Rumor drew him into the case, and torture by the Hangzhou prefect forced a false confession. After exoneration, he remained stripped of status and disabled in both legs, supporting himself through sericulture.
• Bi Xiugu (“Little Cabbage”) — Ge Pinlian’s wife and a commoner. Unable to withstand torture at the county yamen, she falsely confessed to adultery and murder. After exoneration, she became a Buddhist nun under the religious name Huiding.
• Ge Pinlian — A worker in a tofu shop in Cangqian, Yuhang, and the deceased in the case. He suffered from “flowing fire” and died of illness in November 1873, but officials misidentified his death as arsenic poisoning.
• Qian Tan (“Qian Baosheng”) — Proprietor of Cangqian’s Airentang apothecary. Liu Xitong intimidated him into supplying false evidence of an arsenic sale. He never appeared before the Hangzhou prefectural court and died during questioning before transfer to Beijing.
• Liu Xitong — The Yuhang county magistrate. He prejudged the case, falsified the autopsy record, tortured Bi Xiugu, and pressured Qian Tan to furnish false evidence.
• Chen Lu — The Hangzhou prefect. He used leg presses and other torture on Yang Naiwu, ordered officials to complete the false chain of evidence, and issued the first proposed death sentences.
• Yang Changjun — Governor of Zhejiang and a former Xiang Army commander. After the capital appeals began, he delayed review in an effort to preserve the credibility of the provincial administration.
• Hu Xueyan — A celebrated “red-topped merchant” and pharmaceutical magnate. He contributed 200 taels of silver to the Yang family’s second capital appeal and continued to provide financial backing.
• Xia Tongshan — Vice minister of war. He organized eighteen Zhejiang officials to impeach the provincial authorities and helped move the case to the Board of Punishments.
• Weng Tonghe — Vice president of the Board of Punishments. He took part in the central review and helped advance the exhumation at Haihui Temple.

Key Concepts

• Successive adjudication, transmission, and review — Qing death sentences passed through county, prefecture, provincial judicial commissioner, governor, and Board of Punishments. In this case, dependence on written files, the perverse incentive created by official liability, and confession-centered adjudication caused every level to fail.
• Confession-centered justice — A defendant’s confession was treated as decisive proof of guilt. The principle that “no case stands without a confession” reinforced the legal use of torture and became a root cause of wrongful conviction.
• Reversal liability for wrongful judgment — Qing law imposed severe consequences for erroneous capital cases. In bureaucratic practice, accountability became concealment: officials preserved one another’s decisions to avoid punishment.
• Capital appeal (jingkong) — A remedy allowing people in the provinces to petition central offices such as the Censorate directly. The two appeals organized by Yang Juzhen were essential to keeping the case before the central government.

Related Episodes

• 09 The End of the Chinese Legal Tradition: How Late-Qing Reforms Reshaped the Rule of Law
• 02 The Xu Yuanqing Revenge Case: Tang Law and the Rites–Law Debate
• 07 The Republican-Era Swordswoman and the Clash of Rites and Law: Shi Jianqiao’s Assassination of Sun Chuanfang

This is the transcript of episode 10 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On the evening of January 31, 1976, smoke hung thick in a corner bar in Phoenix, Arizona. Several Mexican American laborers were playing poker around a greasy wooden table. An argument broke out over a three-dollar wager. Beer bottles shattered, a knife flashed in the dim light, and one of the men fell. He clutched his chest as the ambulance raced away, but died before reaching the hospital. He was thirty-four years old.

Police found several unsold cards in the dead man’s pocket. A few lines were printed on each:

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the government will appoint one for you.

At the top was a name: Ernesto Miranda.

The destitute man who had just been stabbed in a bar fight was one of the most consequential litigants in American constitutional history. He was the defendant in Miranda v. Arizona, the case that placed “you have the right to remain silent” in police dramas around the world.

Police soon detained a suspect in the fight. With a complicated expression, a young officer took out a card identical to those in Miranda’s pocket and read it slowly: “You have the right to remain silent…” The suspect listened without expression and then stopped talking altogether. Without a direct confession, prosecutors ultimately declined to charge him. The man who had actually wielded the knife crossed the border amid the confusion and disappeared into the Mexican night.

It was an absurd ending: the constitutional shield Miranda had helped create protected the men implicated in his own death ten years later.

In an earlier episode, I discussed Marbury v. Madison—the political struggle through which the Supreme Court claimed the power to interpret the Constitution. Once it had acquired that power, how would the Court use it? There are many possible answers, but few are as dramatic as the case we are about to examine.

From a Confession to the Supreme Court

Turn the clock back to March 3, 1963, again in Phoenix. An eighteen-year-old woman stepped off a city bus after a long day at work. The suburban street was dim and silent except for the sound of her shoes. A battered Packard pulled up beside her. Its door flew open, hands reached out from the darkness, and she was dragged inside.

Her hands were bound and she was raped in the desert. The assailant later drove her back downtown and left. She told police that he was a Hispanic man who wore glasses and that a rope had been tied across the back seat of his car.

Ten days later, two officers traced the description to a Packard owned by a twenty-three-year-old Hispanic man. He had served in the Army, had a criminal record, and worked loading produce. His name was Ernesto Miranda.

Officers brought Miranda from his home to the station and arranged a lineup—the familiar scene in which several men stand behind glass while a witness tries to identify one of them. The victim was anxious and afraid and would not make a positive identification. That did not stop the investigation. Officer Cooley entered the interrogation room, looked Miranda in the eye, and spoke with the calm confidence of someone who had already won: give it up. The victim just identified you. We know it was you.

The claim broke Miranda’s last psychological defense.

He was taken into a windowless interrogation room cut off from the outside world. Two experienced officers questioned him continuously for two hours. At last he broke down. He confessed to rape and kidnapping and signed his name to a paper bearing several preprinted clauses. In substance, they said:

I, Ernesto Miranda, swear that this statement has been made voluntarily and without threat or coercion; that I fully understand my legal rights; and that I understand any statement I make may be used against me in court.

Later investigation showed that Miranda had only a middle-school education. He was emotionally unstable and psychologically immature. His mother had died when he was young, his relationship with his father was poor, and he had been discharged from the Army for psychiatric reasons. In other words, a vulnerable man with limited intellectual ability and an unstable mental state confessed after two hours of isolated questioning and signed language the police had printed in advance.

His trial began three months later, in June 1963. Alvin Moore, a seventy-three-year-old veteran attorney, was appointed to represent the indigent Miranda without charge. Moore moved to exclude the confession—a claim with almost no chance of success at the time. The judge overruled him and admitted the preprinted confession in full. Miranda was sentenced to thirty years in prison, and the state supreme court affirmed.

Moore kept appealing. The case climbed the judicial ladder until it reached the highest seat of power in Washington.

Before Miranda: The Voluntariness Test

Before turning to the Supreme Court’s decision, we need to understand the rules governing American police interrogation before Miranda. Courts decided whether a confession could be used through the “voluntariness test.” A judge reviewed the circumstances surrounding the interrogation and asked whether the defendant had confessed of his own free will.

That may sound reasonable. The problem was that the standard was inconsistent. One judge could find a confession voluntary while another, faced with the same facts, could find it coerced. Police officers had no clear line telling them what they could and could not do.

Worse, interrogations took place behind closed doors. There were no recordings and no independent witnesses. In court, every dispute became a swearing contest between police and defendant. If a suspect alleged coercion, the officers would testify that the questioning had been calm and the confession entirely voluntary. Without a recording, judges almost invariably believed the police. Constitutional rights were hollowed out by an endless contest no defendant was likely to win.

The Supreme Court understood the problem. Over the three decades before Miranda, it had gradually tried to standardize interrogation law through a series of landmark cases.

In Brown v. Mississippi (1936), the Court established that confessions extracted through physical violence were categorically inadmissible. Sheriffs had hung the defendants from a tree and whipped them until they confessed. A unanimous Court held that such violence offended the most basic idea of justice.

Then came Gideon v. Wainwright (1963), which recognized the right of indigent defendants to appointed counsel. Legal representation became a foundation of a fair trial.

In Escobedo v. Illinois (1964), the Court extended the right to counsel backward from the courtroom to police interrogation. Once an investigation had focused on a particular suspect and police had taken him into custody for questioning, a confession obtained after officers refused his request for a lawyer had to be excluded.

But Escobedo left a large loophole: the suspect had to ask for counsel before the police were required to stop. If he did not know the right existed—or was too afraid to invoke it—officers could behave as though it did not exist.

That same year, in Malloy v. Hogan, the Court held that the Fifth Amendment privilege against compelled self-incrimination applied to the states. That decision cleared the way for Miranda to establish a national rule.

Is Closed-Door Interrogation Inherently Coercive?

Even after those decisions, the Court still faced a more fundamental question: could interrogation behind closed doors be coercive in itself? To answer it, we have to look beyond Ernesto Miranda to three other cases the justices considered alongside his.

The first was Vignera v. New York. Police arrested Vignera on suspicion of robbery and questioned him in shifts throughout the day. No one told him he could remain silent or consult an attorney. He confessed orally. Only at eleven that night did an assistant district attorney conduct a formal interview before a stenographer and turn the earlier admissions into a written record. Vignera was sentenced to sixty years in prison.

The second was Westover v. United States. Police arrested Westover on suspicion of robbery and held him in isolation for more than fourteen hours without explaining his rights. FBI agents then took over. Although they administered their own warning before questioning him, the Supreme Court later observed that the two interrogations formed an “uninterrupted chain” from the suspect’s perspective. After hours of intense, unwarned questioning had worn down his will, being told that he could remain silent had little practical meaning.

The third, and perhaps most disturbing, was California v. Stewart. Police arrested Stewart on suspicion of robbery and murder. To force him to talk, they also detained his wife. He was isolated in a cell for five days and questioned nine separate times. He maintained his innocence through the first eight sessions. During the ninth, after hearing his wife crying nearby, he finally broke down and confessed. The police file contained no record that officers had ever told him about his constitutional rights.

The Birth of the Miranda Rule

When the Supreme Court considered the four cases together, Chief Justice Earl Warren understood these tactics better than most. He had spent years as a California prosecutor and sent many serious offenders to prison. He knew the methods because he had once used the same kind of psychological strategy. During the 1966 oral argument, Warren held up not a passage from the Constitution but interrogation manuals circulated internally by police departments in major American cities. They catalogued standardized techniques for isolation, deception, psychological pressure, and manipulation.

On June 13, 1966, the Court ruled by a narrow vote of 5–4. Warren wrote the majority opinion. He began from the pressures inherent in custodial interrogation:

When police take a person into an interrogation room and cut him off from the outside world, they place him in a strange setting he cannot understand. Each new psychological pressure can erode his freedom of choice. To protect the Fifth Amendment privilege against compelled self-incrimination, that fear must be dispelled through a clear and explicit warning of rights.

The Miranda rule was born.

The Court did not prescribe a single fixed script. Instead, it required police to convey four essential points completely and accurately: first, you have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions; second, anything you say can be used against you; third, you have the right to consult an attorney and have counsel present; and fourth, if you cannot afford an attorney, the government will appoint one for you.

Only after a suspect understands these rights and voluntarily waives them may questioning begin and the resulting statement be used in court. The Miranda rule is therefore, at its core, an exclusionary rule for unwarned confessions. If police question a suspect without clearly explaining these rights, the resulting statement is inadmissible. The rule forces law enforcement to respect a suspect’s basic rights instead of treating a confession as something to be obtained at any cost.

The 5–4 vote matters. The four dissenters argued, first, that the Constitution had never authorized the Supreme Court to write such detailed operating procedures for every police department in the country. In their view, the Court had exceeded the judicial role and engaged in legislation. Second, they believed that moderate psychological pressure was legitimate so long as officers did not use violence or deprivation, such as denying food or sleep. Miranda, they warned, would shackle police and allow dangerous criminals to escape punishment.

Although the dissent did not carry the day, opposition to the rule never disappeared. In 1968, two years after the decision, Congress enacted 18 U.S.C. § 3501 in an effort to overrule Miranda. It provided that a confession could be admitted whenever it was voluntary, even if police had not administered the warning. For critics, it was an opportunity to reclaim authority from an overreaching Court.

The issue reached the justices again in June 2000 in Dickerson v. United States. By a decisive vote of 7–2, the Court held § 3501 unconstitutional. Chief Justice William Rehnquist wrote that Miranda was no longer an ordinary evidentiary rule Congress could change at will. It was a constitutional rule. Over more than three decades, it had become embedded in routine policing and in the public understanding of legal rights.

The shift from 5–4 in Miranda to 7–2 in Dickerson showed how firmly the warning had taken root. Reading Miranda rights became a standard feature of American policing.

Does Miranda Let Criminals Go Free?

What about the dissenters’ fear that the rule would allow large numbers of offenders to escape justice?

Consider Miranda’s own case. After the Supreme Court excluded his confession, prosecutors had to find another way to prove guilt. They turned to his girlfriend. After Miranda’s first arrest in 1963, she had visited him in jail. With no officer present and in an entirely private conversation, Miranda told her the details of the kidnapping and rape. He asked for forgiveness and begged her to help cover up the crime.

At the retrial, she took the stand and repeated what he had told her. The defense objected, but the judge overruled it for a straightforward reason: Miranda had confessed to her in a private setting independent of the government. There had been no official compulsion. His statement was voluntary.

In March 1967, without using the unlawful confession, a jury again found Miranda guilty of kidnapping and rape on the basis of witness testimony, the victim’s account, and physical evidence. He was again sentenced to thirty years in prison.

The result was instructive. The Miranda rule was not a device for excusing crime. It required law enforcement to follow lawful procedures. If police gathered enough admissible evidence, they could still convict without a confession.

What did the numbers show about its effect on law enforcement?

New York University professor Stephen Schulhofer conducted a detailed study and estimated that excluding unwarned confessions caused a substantive loss in only about 0.78 percent of criminal prosecutions. Research by Richard Leo likewise found that more than 80 percent of suspects waived their rights and continued answering questions after hearing the warning. Rather than paralyzing interrogation, Miranda helped professionalize policing and pushed investigators away from crude psychological pressure toward more sophisticated methods.

Exceptions and Adjustments

Since 1966, the Supreme Court has also qualified the Miranda rule through a series of decisions.

First came Harris v. New York (1971), which established the impeachment exception. A statement obtained in violation of Miranda cannot be used directly to prove guilt. But if a defendant chooses to testify and gives an account that sharply contradicts the earlier statement, prosecutors may use the statement on cross-examination to challenge his credibility. Miranda cannot become a shield for perjury in court.

Next came New York v. Quarles (1984), which recognized the public-safety exception. Police apprehended an armed suspect in a supermarket and noticed an empty holster at his waist. Realizing that a gun had been hidden somewhere in the store, an officer immediately asked, “Where is the gun?” without first giving the warning. The suspect pointed toward a carton. The Supreme Court held that both his answer and the weapon were admissible. An urgent threat to public safety could temporarily take priority over the warning requirement.

Then came Oregon v. Elstad (1985). Police obtained one statement before administering the warning and a second, identical confession after providing it. Was the later statement “fruit of the poisonous tree” and therefore inadmissible because the first one had been obtained unlawfully? The Court said no. Miranda is a “prophylactic rule”; a technical failure to warn is not itself the same kind of constitutional violation as a coerced confession. If the initial statement was not produced by torture or some other form of compulsion, a later voluntary confession following a proper warning is not poisonous fruit and may be admitted.

The Miranda rule has never been static. Over six decades, the Court has patched and qualified it repeatedly. Yet it has never overturned the rule itself. Anyone who wants to do so must answer a basic question: if police may question people in custody without explaining these rights, how much practical meaning remains in the Fifth Amendment command that no person “shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself”?

Epilogue

Return to the dim Phoenix bar. On January 31, 1976, the paroled Ernesto Miranda lay dying on the floor. In his pocket were cards bearing the warning that carried his name. Selling them earned him a little spare change.

Ten years earlier, his confession had rewritten American criminal procedure. Ten years later, a card bearing his name protected those implicated in his death.

The absurd ending offers a reminder: law protects everyone equally. Even a criminal—even the person you most want to make speak—does not lose his constitutional rights at an officer’s whim. A society’s commitment to civilization is measured not by how it treats the law-abiding, but by how it treats those it regards as the worst among us.

The next time you hear the famous Miranda warning in a police drama, remember that it carries nearly two centuries of American constitutional history. It traveled outward from the country’s highest court until it reached every windowless interrogation room.

Key Figures

• Ernesto Miranda — The defendant in Miranda v. Arizona. A school dropout with a history of mental instability, he was arrested for kidnapping and rape in 1963 and confessed without first being told his constitutional rights. His case transformed American criminal procedure. Paroled in 1972, he was stabbed to death in a bar fight in 1976.
• Carroll Cooley — A Phoenix police officer and one of Miranda’s principal interrogators. At trial, he acknowledged that Miranda had not been informed of his right to silence or counsel.
• Alvin Moore — The seventy-three-year-old court-appointed lawyer who represented Miranda without charge, sought to exclude the confession at trial, and carried the case toward the U.S. Supreme Court.
• Earl Warren — The fourteenth chief justice of the United States (1953–1969) and author of the Miranda majority opinion. His years as a California prosecutor gave him extensive knowledge of police interrogation methods.
• William Rehnquist — The sixteenth chief justice of the United States (1986–2005). He wrote the 7–2 majority opinion in Dickerson confirming that Congress could not abolish the constitutional rule announced in Miranda.
• Twila Hoffman — Miranda’s girlfriend. At his 1967 retrial, she repeated his private jailhouse confession and became a key prosecution witness in his second conviction.
• Stephen Schulhofer — A professor at New York University whose empirical work estimated that Miranda caused an actual prosecution-loss rate of about 0.78 percent.
• Richard Leo — A professor at the University of San Francisco School of Law whose field research found that more than 80 percent of suspects waived their rights and continued answering questions after receiving the warning.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U.S. 436 (1966) — By a 5–4 vote, the Supreme Court held that suspects must be informed of the right to remain silent and the right to counsel before custodial interrogation; otherwise, their statements cannot be used in the prosecution’s case-in-chief.
• Voluntariness test — The principal pre-Miranda standard. Judges assessed the “totality of the circumstances” to decide whether a confession was voluntary, an uncertain inquiry highly dependent on case-by-case discretion.
• Brown v. Mississippi (1936) — A unanimous Court held that confessions extracted through physical violence violated basic fairness and were inadmissible.
• Gideon v. Wainwright (1963) — Established the right of indigent criminal defendants to court-appointed counsel, making legal assistance a foundation of a fair trial.
• Escobedo v. Illinois (1964) — Extended the right to counsel into pretrial interrogation but left the practical loophole that a suspect first had to request an attorney.
• Malloy v. Hogan (1964) — Applied the Fifth Amendment privilege against compelled self-incrimination to the states through the Fourteenth Amendment, preparing the way for a nationwide Miranda rule.
• Vignera v. New York / Westover v. United States / California v. Stewart — The other three cases decided with Miranda, involving all-day serial questioning, an uninterrupted chain of local and federal interrogation, and nine isolated sessions over five days. Together they exposed systemic problems in closed-door custodial questioning.
• Miranda rule — An exclusionary rule for unwarned statements: a statement obtained through custodial interrogation without a proper warning is generally inadmissible in the prosecution’s case-in-chief.
• 18 U.S.C. § 3501 (1968) — Congress’s attempt to supersede Miranda by making a confession admissible whenever it was voluntary, even if police had not administered the warning.
• Dickerson v. United States, 530 U.S. 428 (2000) — Held § 3501 unconstitutional by a 7–2 vote and confirmed that Miranda announced a constitutional rule Congress could not abolish.
• Harris v. New York, 401 U.S. 222 (1971) — Established the impeachment exception: an unwarned statement cannot directly prove guilt but may be used to challenge the credibility of a defendant who testifies inconsistently at trial.
• New York v. Quarles, 467 U.S. 649 (1984) — Established the public-safety exception, allowing officers to ask urgent questions without first giving the warning when an immediate danger exists.
• Oregon v. Elstad, 470 U.S. 298 (1985) — Held that a technical failure to warn does not automatically taint a later voluntary confession made after a proper warning.
• Prophylactic rules — Rules created by courts to safeguard constitutional rights before a direct violation occurs. Miranda warnings protect the Fifth Amendment privilege even though the precise script does not appear in the constitutional text.

Related Episodes

• 08 The Supreme Court in the Crevice: The Birth of American Judicial Review — How Marbury v. Madison gave the Supreme Court the power to interpret the Constitution. Miranda is a classic example of the Court using judicial review to impose a procedural rule on police throughout the country.

This is the transcript of episode 09 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

In the episode on Shi Jianqiao, I mentioned the “late-Qing legal reforms” as the foundation on which the Republic of China later built its Complete Book of the Six Codes. Today I want to look closely at this radical legal transformation in the Qing dynasty’s final years.

The subject receives surprisingly little attention on the Chinese internet. Yet its importance is seriously underestimated. In one stroke, the reforms ended more than two millennia of legal tradition and grafted a modern legal system onto the ruins of the classical Chinese legal order.

Trading Legal Reform for Sovereignty

Let us return to Wuchang in 1902. Zhang Zhidong, the governor-general of Huguang, was negotiating the renewal of a commercial treaty with Britain. On the final day, the talks stalled over extraterritoriality.

We tend to regard extraterritoriality simply as an instrument of Western aggression and proof of China’s semicolonial status. The reality was more complicated. Commerce between two countries required legal rules both sides trusted. When British and Chinese merchants disputed a transaction, which law and which court should decide the case? Britain considered Qing law “barbarous and backward,” unsuited to modern commerce, and demanded that British law govern its nationals. To the Qing government, this was an intolerable violation of sovereignty.

Why did Chinese law appear so backward to the British? The Qing’s central code, the Great Qing Code and Substatutes, combined criminal, civil, and administrative rules in one body and treated punishment as the answer to nearly every kind of dispute. Caning, beating, penal servitude, exile, and death could follow conduct ranging from unpaid debts and broken contracts to a son talking back to an elder. Its central purpose was not to protect individual rights or resolve disputes but to preserve order through obedience.

By the nineteenth century, Western systems had separated criminal, civil, commercial, and procedural law. They had also developed lawyers, public trials, and rules of evidence. Against that background, Western criticism was not merely arrogance. Qing officials sometimes tortured foreign suspects and confined them with convicted killers—practices intolerable to people accustomed to procedural safeguards.

At the decisive moment in the 1902 negotiations, Zhang proposed a clause: if China improved its laws and judicial system to Britain’s satisfaction, Britain would relinquish extraterritoriality. The British accepted; after all, they would decide what counted as satisfactory. The result was the Mackay Treaty. The United States and Japan soon signed similar provisions.

Histories often cite this promise as the starting point of late-Qing legal reform. Initially, however, Zhang hoped to placate Britain with the appearance of change. He later conceded that reform alone could not recover jurisdiction; ultimately, China needed national power.

Even so, the court adopted the proposal. The deeper cause lay in the Boxer crisis of 1900. After the allied armies entered Beijing, Empress Dowager Cixi fled to Xi’an and was nearly named personally responsible by the foreign powers. The shock convinced her that without fundamental change, the dynasty would not survive.

In 1901, while still in exile, Cixi issued an edict announcing reform. Liu Kunyi and Zhang Zhidong then submitted the Three Joint Memorials on Reform, the programmatic document of the New Policies. Legal reform became one of its central projects. After the Mackay Treaty was signed in 1902, the court appointed Shen Jiaben and Wu Tingfang as commissioners for the revision of the laws.

Shen Jiaben: Preserve the Old, but Admit the New

Shen Jiaben’s life was almost a miniature of the reform movement itself. Born in Zhejiang in 1840, he received a classical Confucian education and entered government through the examinations. He earned the jinshi degree in 1883 at forty-three, served as prefect of Tianjin and Baoding and as judicial commissioner of Shanxi, and was already sixty-two when appointed to revise the laws.

Shortly before that appointment, imprisonment had transformed him. During the Boxer crisis, a French missionary with a grievance over an old case accused Shen of colluding with the Boxers. Allied forces detained him for four months before releasing him for lack of evidence. The records say little about what he endured, but afterward his intellectual direction changed completely.

Previously a conventional scholar of statutes and precedents, Shen began to study Western law systematically. Yan Fu’s translation of Montesquieu’s The Spirit of the Laws showed him a mode of abstract legal reasoning missing from the Chinese tradition of rules and decided cases. That discovery shaped the reforms he later led.

Shen supervised translations of thirty-three foreign codes and legal works, invited Japanese jurists to Beijing, and founded China’s first modern law school. His guiding maxim was: “The old need not all be discarded; the new must also be consulted.”

From Commercial Law to a New Criminal Code

The speed of the project was extraordinary. From its formal launch in 1902 to the dynasty’s fall in 1911, Shen’s team attempted to reconstruct a legal order two thousand years in the making.

They began with commerce. The 1904 Imperially Sanctioned Great Qing Commercial Code, modeled partly on Japanese and German law, contained nine general provisions on merchants and 131 articles on companies. Although spare by modern standards, it introduced the limited-liability company to Chinese law. A company became a legal person and shareholders were liable only to the extent of their investment. Behind that rule was a revolutionary premise: individuals and organizations met as equal legal subjects rather than through personal dependency.

Commercial law was only the beginning. Criminal reform reached much deeper. In 1905 the court abolished lingchi, exposure of the severed head, mutilation of corpses, tattooing, and collective liability. Beheading and strangulation remained the only forms of capital punishment. It also replaced beating and caning with fines. Punishment no longer had to be inflicted upon the body; it could attach to property, implicitly recognizing the offender as a property-owning legal subject rather than merely a body available for violence.

Shen then invited the Japanese jurist Okada Asatarō to help draft a new criminal code using Japan’s 1907 code as a model. Promulgated on January 25, 1911, the New Qing Criminal Code was China’s first specialized modern criminal code.

Its innovations were profound. First, it established legality: no act was a crime, and no punishment could be imposed, without a prior statutory provision. The written law, rather than an emperor’s command, became the standard.

Second, it modernized punishment. The principal penalties were death, imprisonment, detention, and fines; strangulation was the sole death penalty. Additional penalties included deprivation of civil rights and confiscation.

Third, it abolished privileges such as the “Eight Deliberations” and substitution of office for punishment, under which imperial relatives, high officials, and distinguished persons could escape or reduce a sentence. A hierarchy that had survived since the Han dynasty was formally removed.

Fourth, it treated children under twelve through protective education rather than criminal punishment—an advanced shift from retribution to rehabilitation.

The Civil Code Draft and the Rites-versus-Law Debate

Civil codification proceeded in parallel. In August 1911, the first independent Chinese civil-code draft was completed. Its five books and more than 1,500 articles followed German and Japanese models. The first three—General Principles, Obligations, and Property—were drafted by the Japanese jurist Matsuoka Yoshimasa and introduced legal persons, bona fide third parties, and limitation periods. The final two books, Family and Succession, retained older norms: parental consent to marriage, the husband’s control of marital property, and the exclusion of women from inheritance.

The text was therefore divided against itself. Its first half spoke the individualism of the late nineteenth century: the person as independent and equal. Its second half still spoke the language of patriarchal kinship: one was first a son, daughter, or wife and only then an individual. Classical and modern ideas confronted each other inside a single code.

The fiercest controversy surrounding the new criminal code became known as the “debate between rites and law.” Here the phrase refers not to the general historical tension between Confucian ethics and state law, but to two camps within the late-Qing codification project. The jurisprudential reformers, represented by Shen Jiaben and Yang Du, supported the new code. The ritual conservatives, represented by Zhang Zhidong and Lao Naixuan, opposed it.

Their disputes were highly concrete. Should consensual sex by an unmarried woman be a crime? Reformers placed it in the realm of morality and public opinion; conservatives believed decriminalization would corrupt social customs. Should relatives be permitted to conceal one another’s crimes? Reformers would preserve the principle without distinctions based on mourning grades; conservatives insisted that proximity, seniority, and kinship rank determined the duty. Could a younger relative defend himself against an elder’s unlawful assault? Reformers called self-defense a natural right; conservatives regarded striking an elder as an intolerable inversion. Even the age of criminal responsibility was contested: Shen initially proposed sixteen but was forced down to twelve.

The conservatives believed China’s agrarian order rested on the family. If the law treated every offender alike and refused heavier penalties for insubordination, the ethical structure of the family—and with it political order—would collapse.

The reformers argued the opposite. China was weak because individuals owed loyalty through the family rather than directly to the state; family rules displaced national law and patriarchs displaced officials. A modern state required law centered on the individual. As Yang Du put it, the spirit of the new criminal code was both nationalism and constitutionalism.

The result was an awkward compromise. The code retained the reformers’ framework, but a Provisional Charter appended rules preserving the old law for offenses against the imperial house, rebellion, foreign aggression, and offenses by juniors against seniors. Beheading survived, and younger relatives could not claim self-defense against elders. The main text promised equality before the law; the appendix declared some people more equal than others.

From Statutes to Judicial Institutions

The movement reformed more than statutes. It also attempted to restructure judicial power. Traditionally, administration and adjudication were united: the county magistrate was both local executive and judge, while at the center the Board of Punishments, Court of Judicial Review, and Censorate had overlapping authority.

The 1906 institutional reform transformed the Board of Punishments into a Ministry of Law responsible for judicial administration and the Court of Judicial Review into the Supreme Court responsible for adjudication. For the first time, judicial power was formally separated from administration.

Implementation met resistance. The ministry and court quickly fought over personnel and authority. The ministry sought to preserve bureaucratic control, while the court asserted judicial independence. An even sharper conflict set the central government against provincial governors. Creating independent trial courts throughout the country meant taking a core power from provincial officials whose military, fiscal, and judicial authority had expanded enormously since the Taiping and Nian rebellions.

Provincial governors and the governor of Shuntian resisted plans for local courts, disputing jurisdiction, judicial independence, and professional qualifications. By then the center was too weak to prevail. It conceded step by step, and local judicial reform was shelved. The episode anticipated a recurring problem in modern China: a beautiful institutional blueprint on paper cannot survive unchanged when the underlying distribution of power remains intact.

By 1911 the movement had alienated interests from the center to the provinces. Conservative officials repeatedly impeached Shen for betraying orthodoxy. The court quietly removed him from leadership by ordering him back to his former ministry post. That same year the Revolution of 1911 began; within months the Qing emperor abdicated.

Three Legacies of a Failed Reform

Did the late-Qing reforms succeed? In their immediate aims, clearly not. They did not save the dynasty, nor did they recover extraterritorial jurisdiction. China achieved that only in 1943 through new treaties with its wartime allies.

Historically, however, their consequences were immense.

Their first legacy was the formal transformation of Chinese law: from a unified code dominated by punishment to separate branches and distinct substantive and procedural rules. The Republic inherited these forms. It revised the unimplemented Qing criminal code, removed the Provisional Charter, and promulgated it as the national criminal law. The Qing civil draft directly informed the Nationalist civil code. Even the structure and concepts of today’s Chinese Civil Code can trace part of their lineage to that draft.

Their second legacy was the problem of decontextualized legal transplantation. In a few years, the drafters imported doctrines accumulated over centuries in the West into a society still dominated by agriculture and deeply rooted kinship structures. Many ordinary people—and many local officials—could scarcely understand the new provisions. Lao Naixuan mocked the criminal code as something written for foreigners. The criticism was not entirely wrong: demonstrating reform to the foreign powers was a primary motive, and foreign rules were copied before they could be adapted locally. Advanced texts and social reality diverged, leaving many provisions suspended in midair.

Yet a law perfectly fitted to existing society cannot help move that society forward. Shen and his colleagues planted a measuring rod in the ground of the twentieth century and waited for China to reach its height.

The third, and perhaps most important, legacy was a new conception of law. Ideas that once looked heretical took root in Chinese legal thought. For the first time, ethical conventions with millennia of authority could be declared legally invalid.

When news of the Wuchang Uprising reached Beijing in the autumn of 1911, the seventy-one-year-old Shen had been out of office for months. He returned to his old ministry room, surrounded by unfinished drafts and translations. He knew the dynasty would not last, and that his decade of codes would probably never take effect under the Qing banner.

But he did not stop. He worked until the day the emperor abdicated. Asked later whether he regretted it, Shen answered indirectly: “Law is the pattern of all under heaven and the measure of all affairs.” Law supplies the rules and standards of the world, no matter who sits upon the throne.

Key Figures

• Shen Jiaben: The central figure in late-Qing legal reform, arguing for modern legal institutions while preserving parts of tradition.
• Wu Tingfang: An important legal and political figure involved in the late-Qing reforms.
• Lao Naixuan: A conservative voice in the rites-versus-law debate who opposed the New Criminal Code’s departure from traditional ethics.
• Zhang Zhidong: A late-Qing statesman whose position reflected tensions between local and central power, tradition and reform.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Late-Qing legal reform: The 1902–1911 reform effort to recover legal sovereignty and save the dynasty.
• Consular jurisdiction: Foreign powers’ judicial privileges in China, a major external pressure behind reform.
• Great Qing New Criminal Code: A major product of China’s transition toward modern criminal law.
• Rites versus law: Institutional conflict over kinship ethics, marriage and family, and principles of punishment.
• Dali Yuan and new-style courts: Key institutions in the modernization of the late-Qing judiciary.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 01｜From the First Emperor to the Revival of Roman Law: State-Building Meets the Rule of Law : Provides a longer view of the relation between state power and the rule of law.
• Podcast 05｜Gao Mingxuan and Chinese Criminal Law: Four Elements vs. Three Tiers : Extends the story into modern Chinese criminal-law theory.

This is the transcript of episode 08 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcast . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

In episodes 3 and 6, we talked about Trump and birthright citizenship. Both times we saw the U.S. Supreme Court playing the role of arbiter in contemporary constitutional disputes—it can interpret the Constitution, find the president in violation of it, and overturn acts of Congress. But by what right does the Supreme Court hold such power? Nothing in the text of the Constitution states that “the Supreme Court has the power to interpret the Constitution.” Where did this power come from?

The answer: the Court fought for it itself. Or, more precisely, it won it through a concrete case—a case that appears in virtually every course on American legal history and constitutional law. That case is Marbury v. Madison.

The Election of 1800 and the “Midnight Judges”

Let’s go back to where the story begins. In 1800, the United States held its third presidential election. The two great camps were the Federalists and the Democratic-Republicans, both parties founded by the nation’s Founding Fathers. The sitting president was the Federalist John Adams, one of the principal drafters of the Declaration of Independence and, after Washington, the second president of the United States. His rival for the presidency was the Democratic-Republican Thomas Jefferson—also a principal drafter of the Declaration of Independence, counted alongside Washington and Franklin among the three great founders of the republic.

The two men had been comrades in the War of Independence; now they were political enemies. The election was extraordinarily bitter, with both sides attacking each other throughout the campaign. The result was a landslide for Jefferson’s Democratic-Republicans—they took not only the presidency but both houses of Congress as well.

That meant the Federalists had lost the executive and legislative powers at the same time. So they turned their eyes to the third power: the judiciary. In the American system of separated powers, the judiciary is supposed to be a neutral referee that takes no part in the substance of governing. But precisely for that reason, it is the most stable branch. What the Federalists set out to do, before losing everything, was to turn the judiciary into their own stronghold.

They had to act during the transition period, before the new government took office, using the last of the power in their hands to rush their people into the judicial system. In January 1801, the Federalists appointed their own Secretary of State, John Marshall, as the new Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. That is, Marshall served as Secretary of State and Chief Justice at the same time—unthinkable today, but in the early republic holding two offices at once was not unusual. And this arrangement planted a subtle seed for what came later, which we will get to shortly.

On February 13, the Federalist-controlled Congress, with its term about to expire, passed a new Judiciary Act with three main provisions: first, it created sixteen new lifetime federal circuit judgeships, all filled by Federalists; second, it greatly expanded the jurisdiction of the federal courts, so that cases involving federal matters could be heard directly by federal courts without going through the state courts; third, it reduced the number of Supreme Court justices from six to five, to prevent the Democratic-Republicans from nominating a new justice once in office. Posterity mockingly called this law the “Midnight Judges Act.” Its purpose was transparent—to strengthen Federalist control over the judicial power—but objectively it also strengthened the judiciary itself and made the structure of separated powers more solid.

Two weeks later, on February 27, the Federalist Congress passed the District of Columbia Organic Act, formally creating Washington, D.C., and authorizing the president to appoint justices of the peace for the District—roughly equivalent to today’s magistrate judges, with jurisdiction over civil cases and minor criminal cases in their districts. On March 2, Adams signed an order nominating forty-two justices of the peace—all their own men, of course. On March 3, the Senate rushed to confirm the appointments. Why the hurry? Because the next day, March 4, the new Democratic-Republican president, Jefferson, would take office.

Under the custom of the time, Senate confirmation alone did not put the nominees in office. They had to receive commissions issued by the State Department before their appointments took effect. So from the evening of March 3, after Congress adjourned, Marshall sat in his State Department office signing commissions one by one. But there was not enough time. Marshall signed every commission and affixed every seal—but as dawn approached, seventeen of them had not been delivered to their recipients.

Among the seventeen who never received their commissions was a man named William Marbury, one of the leading figures of the Federalist Party. He was more than happy to accept the appointment. But even though Congress had confirmed it and the State Department had issued it, the commission simply never reached his hands.

At noon on March 4, the new president, Jefferson, was sworn in. He walked into the State Department office and saw the seventeen undelivered commissions on the desk. He told his new Secretary of State, James Madison, directly: hold these commissions—not one of them is to be delivered.

Jefferson simply abolished twelve of the seventeen posts and reassigned the remaining five to his own Democratic-Republicans. The commissions of Marbury and the other sixteen Federalists were thus nullified. And that was not all: Jefferson also replaced nearly half of the mid-level officials in the federal executive.

Meanwhile, in March 1802, the new Democratic-Republican Congress passed a law repealing the entire “Midnight Judges Act” of the year before. The sixteen newly seated federal circuit judges all lost their jobs. And to prevent the Federalist-controlled Supreme Court from declaring the repeal unconstitutional, Congress pushed the Court’s session, originally scheduled for June 1802, all the way back to February 1803—a delay of eight full months. This was open suppression of the judicial power by the legislative power.

Worse was still to come. Congress launched impeachment proceedings against federal judges. John Pickering, a district judge in New Hampshire, was removed. Then the spear of impeachment pointed straight at one of the Supreme Court’s own justices—Samuel Chase. In the final vote, he escaped removal by a single vote.

I recount all this so you can feel the real atmosphere the Supreme Court faced in February 1803. It was not a lofty, revered guardian of the Constitution. It was prey backed into a corner, trembling.

It was against this backdrop that Marbury—the justice-of-the-peace nominee whose appointment had been cancelled because his commission never arrived—filed suit against the new Secretary of State, Madison. This is the famous case of Marbury v. Madison. After working its way through the courts, the case finally reached the Supreme Court.

A Lawsuit Aimed at the Separation of Powers

Marbury’s claim was straightforward: he asked the Supreme Court to order Secretary of State Madison to hand over the commission that belonged to him. His legal basis was Section 13 of the Judiciary Act of 1789, which authorized the Supreme Court to issue writs of mandamus to sitting officers of the federal government.

The Jefferson administration at first refused to appear. Madison did not show up in person and did not even send counsel. Their reasoning: the courts have no power to interfere in the executive affairs of the government—after all, I am the elected government, representing the will of the people. You justices are appointed, not elected. On this point Jefferson’s political instincts were sharp. A challenge by the judicial power to the executive power had never happened in American history; this was an entirely new question.

From the very beginning, this case was aimed straight at the separation of powers. And now this hot potato landed in the hands of Chief Justice John Marshall—himself a Federalist. The separation of powers, the founding principle of the American republic, had arrived at a crossroads of history.

If Marshall ruled for Marbury and ordered Madison to hand over the commission, the Jefferson administration would, with absolute certainty, refuse to comply. That would create a deadlock—an order of the Supreme Court openly ignored by the government. And the Court commands no army; it has no power of enforcement. As Alexander Hamilton wrote in Federalist No. 78, the judiciary has neither purse nor sword. The Court’s authority rests on general acceptance—and once a Supreme Court judgment is ignored by the government, that authority collapses.

Conversely, if he ruled against Marbury and simply dismissed the case, that would amount to bowing to Jefferson. It would be an admission that the Court could not protect rights a citizen had already lawfully acquired—that the president could do as he pleased. The Court would lose all standing in the political system, the Federalists would lose decisively to the Democratic-Republicans, and America would slide toward one-party dominance.

To win was to invite humiliation; to lose was slow suicide. For the Supreme Court of that moment, this judgment was a walk on a tightrope.

Marshall’s Three Questions

How did Marshall break the deadlock? He split the opinion into three questions.

First question: did Marbury have a right to the commission?

Marshall’s answer: yes. His logic was perfectly clear: nomination by the president, consent of the Senate, signature and seal by the Secretary of State—at that point the appointment was complete. Delivery of the commission was a matter of convenience, not a condition of validity. Marbury therefore held a definite, vested legal right to the office of justice of the peace. For the Jefferson administration to withhold it was a violation of that right.

Second question: if the right was violated, does the law afford a remedy?

Marshall was equally emphatic: it does. Here he invoked a maxim from Roman law—“where there is a right, there is a remedy.” The maxim rests on a basic principle from Roman times: if a person enjoys a right under law, then the law must provide him a path to relief when that right is injured.

Then he wrote the sentence that has been quoted countless times since: the very essence of the United States is that it is a government of laws, and not of men. If a nation’s laws furnish no remedy for the violation of a vested legal right, that nation does not deserve the title of a government of laws.

But what if the party violating a citizen’s rights happens to be the government itself—the executive branch? How is a court to protect the right then? To answer this, Marshall divided the acts of executive officers into two categories.

The first category is acts of political discretion. When the president makes decisions in foreign affairs, national defense, and the other domains the Constitution commits exclusively to him, the Secretary of State and the department heads are merely the president’s agents, carrying out his political will. Such decisions are answerable only to the nation and to the voters; the courts have no standing to question them.

The second category is acts bound by law—where the law has already imposed on a particular officer a specific, definite, unquestionable legal duty, and that duty bears directly on the individual rights of particular citizens. In that situation, the officer is no longer the president’s agent—he is an instrument of the law. What he does is what the law commands him to do, not a matter of his own judgment of values. So if he fails to do it, the courts have the power to intervene. If you, the Secretary of State, will not deliver a commission already signed and sealed, of course the courts can act.

This distinction is enormously important. It is in fact a cornerstone of all modern administrative law. When we speak today of “citizens suing the government,” of bringing suit against official inaction—the origin of that idea traces in large part back to this passage of Marshall’s reasoning. And even as Marshall granted the courts jurisdiction over the government, he drew a red line the courts must not cross: politics to politics, law to law; political questions the courts must not touch, legal questions the courts must not shirk.

So Marshall answered the first two questions clearly: Marbury had the right; the right was violated; the courts could grant relief. And then?

Third question: does the Supreme Court have original jurisdiction over this case?

The air in the courtroom must have frozen at that moment. Because Marshall suddenly swung his gun around—not at the Jefferson administration, but at a law passed by Congress. Section 13 of the Judiciary Act of 1789 plainly authorized the Supreme Court to issue writs of mandamus, and Marbury’s counsel had cited exactly that provision. But Marshall said: wait—let us look at the Constitution again.

Article III, Section 2 of the Constitution is perfectly clear: the Supreme Court’s original jurisdiction extends to only three kinds of cases—those affecting ambassadors, those affecting other public ministers and consuls, and those in which a state is a party. Marbury’s case, a dispute over the appointment of a local justice of the peace, is obviously not on that list.

So here is the problem: Section 13 of the Judiciary Act of 1789 says the Supreme Court may take the case; the Constitution says it may not. One is a statute enacted by Congress; the other is the supreme law of the land. They are in direct conflict. Which one governs?

Marshall’s answer: the Constitution governs.

Here he wrote the most famous syllogism in the history of American law: the Constitution is the supreme law of the nation, established precisely to limit the powers of every branch of government, and its authority is superior to any ordinary legislation; the Judiciary Act of 1789, by presuming to enlarge the Constitution’s limits on the Supreme Court’s original jurisdiction, is repugnant to the Constitution; and a law repugnant to the Constitution is not law—it is void from the beginning.

Then came the decisive conclusion—it is emphatically the province and duty of the judicial department to say what the law is and where its limits lie. When a judge deciding a concrete case faces a conflict between an act of Congress and the Constitution, he has only one choice: apply the Constitution, and declare the law that violates it void.

Not one word of this conclusion appears in the constitutional text. Marshall interpreted it into existence. But from that day forward, it became an unbreakable rule of American constitutional practice.

Defeating Your Opponent by Yielding

And so the Supreme Court’s final judgment: Marbury loses. The Supreme Court has no jurisdiction and therefore cannot issue the writ of mandamus. Case dismissed.

Let’s take apart exactly what makes this judgment so brilliant.

On the merits, it is a retreat. Marshall voluntarily declared that his Court lacked jurisdiction, which left Jefferson no ground whatsoever for attacking it. When a judge says he himself cannot take the case, can you accuse him of overreach?

Institutionally, it is a seizure of power. To arrive at the conclusion “I have no jurisdiction,” Marshall first had to decide whether Section 13 of the Judiciary Act of 1789 was unconstitutional. And to decide whether a statute is unconstitutional, he first had to establish that the courts possess the power to review acts of Congress for constitutionality. In other words: he said “I will not take this case”—but the premise of saying so was precisely “I have the power to review whether the laws you, Congress, enact violate the Constitution.”

This is what it means to defeat your opponent by yielding. That sense of proportion—knowing when to advance and when to retreat—is the most remarkable thing about Marshall. On the great questions, not an inch of ground; on the small ones, voluntary concession.

From that day on, the U.S. Supreme Court formally possessed its sharpest weapon: the power of constitutional review. The Court can interpret the Constitution, strike down laws passed by Congress, and nullify executive orders signed by the president. This power appears nowhere in the constitutional text; it went through no amendment process and no popular referendum. It was “invented” by a judge, in a judicial opinion, through a single act of legal reasoning.

And so the Supreme Court safely survived the most dangerous period of its founding. But the story of judicial review was only beginning.

From Horizontal to Vertical: The Expansion of Judicial Review

What Marbury established was horizontal review: the Supreme Court may review the federal government. But what about the states? Can the Supreme Court review state legislation, and the judgments of state courts?

That brings us to the next two milestones.

One is Martin v. Hunter’s Lessee (1816). The case concerned title to land in Virginia belonging to Loyalists after the War of Independence. The Supreme Court ruled, but the Virginia courts refused to comply. Justice Joseph Story wrote the opinion, holding that under Article VI of the Constitution, federal law must be interpreted and applied uniformly throughout the nation, and that in all cases involving the Constitution and federal law, the federal judicial power extends to the judgments of the state courts.

The other is Cohens v. Virginia (1821). The case arose in Virginia, where a state court had convicted a man for selling federal lottery tickets. The defendant appealed to the Supreme Court. Virginia’s position: I am a sovereign state; the Supreme Court has no authority to re-examine my criminal judgments. Marshall wrote the opinion himself: in cases involving the Constitution and federal law, the United States is one nation. On matters touching federal questions, the states do not hold final sovereignty. The Supreme Court holds final appellate jurisdiction over such judgments.

Taken together, these two cases meant that the Supreme Court could henceforth review the legislative, executive, and judicial acts of the states. One Constitution, one standard, one court of final appeal. At the time, it was an institutional arrangement unique in the world.

Of course, power is a double-edged sword. Judicial review has been abused in history, at a staggering cost.

The most notorious counterexample is Dred Scott v. Sandford (1857)—a case we have mentioned repeatedly in earlier episodes. The Supreme Court used its power of constitutional review to hold that Black slaves were not citizens of the United States, and to declare the Missouri Compromise of 1820 unconstitutional. It was only the second time in the Court’s history that it had struck down an act of Congress. The decision inflamed the conflict between North and South and is regarded as one of the catalysts of the Civil War. The Court paid with its reputation, and it took a full generation to slowly rebuild its authority.

The lesson is a profound one, and it points to the deepest question of legitimacy in the institution of judicial review.

The Counter-Majoritarian Difficulty: The Fight over Legitimacy

In 1961, Alexander Bickel, a constitutional scholar at Harvard, coined a famous concept: the counter-majoritarian difficulty. Bickel’s point: the core of democracy is majority rule. Congress is elected by the majority of the people; so is the president. But the justices of the Supreme Court are not. They are nominated by the president and confirmed by the Senate, and once seated they serve for life—they neither court voters nor fear re-election. So by what right do nine unelected judges veto legislation that represents the will of the majority? Doesn’t that violate the fundamental principle of democracy at its root?

The challenge is in fact as old as the founding. Jefferson himself held that the three branches are equal in standing, each with its own independent power to interpret the Constitution; a court’s judgment binds only the parties in the particular case and has no general binding force on future legislation or governance. This position later developed into a theory known as departmentalism.

The most powerful scholarly rebuttal to the Supreme Court’s monopoly on constitutional review came from John Gibson, a judge of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. In 1825, in Eakin v. Raub, Gibson wrote a dissent that remains required reading in American constitutional law courses to this day.

Gibson made three arguments:

First, no clause of the constitutional text expressly authorizes courts to declare acts of the legislature void. Marshall said the power is “implied” in the logic of the Constitution—but Gibson replied: that is not implication, that is inference. And an institutional arrangement of such magnitude cannot rest on inference; it requires express authorization.

Second, interpreting the Constitution is not the courts’ monopoly. Courts must of course interpret the Constitution when they adjudicate—but doesn’t Congress interpret the Constitution too, when it legislates so as to keep its laws constitutional? If both branches claim to be interpreting the Constitution, why must the courts’ interpretation prevail over Congress’s? That is “judicial supremacy,” not “constitutional supremacy.”

Third, democracy’s mechanism of self-correction. If legislation goes wrong, it is the people who should correct it—by voting the authors of bad laws out at the next election. To let unelected judges correct the errors of elected representatives is not a victory for the rule of law; it is “an extraordinary political power quietly grafted onto the ordinary judicial power.”

Each of these three arguments strikes at a joint of the institution of judicial review.

How did the defenders of constitutional review respond? The two most persuasive theories come from two twentieth-century scholars.

The first comes from John Hart Ely. In Democracy and Distrust (1980), he proposed the theory of representation reinforcement. The legitimacy of constitutional review, Ely argued, does not rest on judges being wiser than legislators or better at making value judgments. It rests on their capacity to safeguard the fair functioning of the democratic process itself. Judges should intervene in only two situations: first, when a political majority tries to monopolize the channels of politics—by suppressing civil rights, say, or manipulating electoral districts; second, when minority groups are systematically shut out of politics and will never have representation in the legislature—then the courts must step forward and hold an umbrella over them. In this framework, judicial review is not opposing democracy; it is patching democracy.

The second theory comes from Bickel himself—the Harvard professor of the “counter-majoritarian difficulty” we met above. Precisely because constitutional review carries a counter-majoritarian color, he argued, courts must exercise this power with extreme restraint. This is a kind of passive virtue. Courts should make full use of procedural devices to avoid ruling on the merits—not every case must be heard; of the seven or eight thousand petitions the Supreme Court receives each year, perhaps only a few dozen are granted. The Court’s political capital is finite: every use spends some of it, and the more it is used, the faster its legitimacy wears away. The best court is the one that seems to do nothing much all year—while the Constitution’s bottom line never retreats a single step.

Epilogue

And with that, our story of judicial review is told. This institution was not “designed”; it grew out of a crack in the Constitution—the product of political struggle, a political window of opportunity seized with judicial wisdom.

As for Marbury, the man who never received his commission: he went back to Maryland and carried on with his business. In 1810 he even ran for Congress, and lost. To the end of his life, he never obtained that piece of parchment that was rightfully his. Judged by the outcome, he lost. But judged by the institution—every citizen who walks into a U.S. federal court today because their constitutional rights have been violated owes a quiet debt of gratitude to this man who lost his case.

Key Figures

• John Marshall — Fourth Chief Justice of the United States and author of the Marbury opinion; served thirty-four years and laid the foundational architecture of federal judicial review
• William Marbury — Federalist merchant, nominated as justice of the peace for the District of Columbia, who brought his historic suit because his commission was never delivered
• John Adams — Second president of the United States, who launched the mass “midnight judges” appointments on his way out of office to preserve Federalist influence over the judiciary
• Thomas Jefferson — Third president of the United States, who ordered the undelivered commissions withheld and the posts abolished; a lifelong opponent of judicial supremacy
• James Madison — Jefferson’s Secretary of State and the nominal defendant, who refused to appear in court
• Joseph Story — Supreme Court justice, author of Martin v. Hunter’s Lessee, which established federal courts’ vertical review over state judiciaries
• Roger Taney — Fifth Chief Justice, Marshall’s successor, and author of the majority opinion in Dred Scott v. Sandford, which pushed constitutional review into catastrophic abuse
• John Gibson — Judge of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court whose dissent in Eakin v. Raub mounted the systematic scholarly rebuttal to Marshall’s reasoning
• Alexander Bickel — Twentieth-century constitutional scholar who named the “counter-majoritarian difficulty” and proposed the theory of “passive virtues”
• John Hart Ely — Constitutional scholar who proposed the “representation reinforcement” theory in defense of judicial review’s democratic legitimacy

Key Cases and Concepts

• Writ of mandamus — A judicial order compelling a government officer to perform a clear legal duty; rooted in the English common-law tradition
• Judicial review — The power of courts to review legislative and executive acts for constitutionality and declare unconstitutional ones void; nowhere written in the Constitution, created by the Marbury decision
• “Acts of political discretion” vs. “acts bound by law” — Marshall’s classic division of executive action: matters like foreign affairs and defense belong to the president’s exclusive discretion and are beyond the courts’ reach, while purely ministerial duties clearly fixed by law are subject to judicial supervision
• Departmentalism — The position of Jefferson and Madison: the three branches are equal, each with its own independent authority to interpret the Constitution
• Counter-majoritarian difficulty — Bickel’s name for the question of whether unelected justices striking down democratically enacted legislation violates the fundamental principle of democratic self-government
• Representation reinforcement — Ely’s claim that judicial review should focus on protecting the fairness and openness of the democratic process, not substitute for Congress’s substantive value judgments
• Passive virtues — Bickel’s claim that courts should use procedural techniques to avoid divisive questions, conserving their limited political capital and letting the political process digest substantive value conflicts

Related Episodes

• 03 How Trump Challenges the Constitution: The Legal Battle over Birthright Citizenship — the federal courts’ central role in a contemporary constitutional dispute (birthright citizenship)
• 06 U.S. Birthright Citizenship: Total Victory or Temporary Truce? — a contemporary case of federal district courts halting a presidential executive order

This is the transcript of episode 07 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcast . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

In episode 2, we told the story of Xu Yuanqing’s revenge case in the Tang dynasty. At the time, that case set off a great debate over rites versus law that occupied the entire legal world for decades. In the end, the debate reached no definitive conclusion; the court chose a compromise resolution, leaving the underlying rites-versus-law question unsettled.

More than a thousand years later, in the twentieth century, that core question was still not fully resolved—when a person kills for the sake of “filial piety,” what exactly is the law supposed to do? In today’s episode, we fast-forward to 1935 to look at what was called “the strangest case of the Republic”—Shi Jianqiao’s assassination of Sun Chuanfang.

Three Shots in the Buddhist Hall

On the afternoon of November 13, 1935, in Tianjin, a Buddhist lay-practitioners’ hall called Jushilin was holding a sutra-chanting service. Sun Chuanfang, the warlord of the Zhili clique, sat in the front row in a monk’s robe, eyes closed, packed in among the other devotees, his head bowed as he listened to the chanting.

Among the devotees was a woman. Making the excuse that the brazier in front was too hot, she rose and moved to Sun Chuanfang’s right rear.

Then she drew a Browning pistol, aimed it at the back of Sun’s head, and fired a single shot. Sun died on the spot. But not yet satisfied, she fired two more.

The hall erupted into chaos.

What followed was the most dramatic moment of the whole case. The assassin did not flee. Instead she announced in a loud voice:

“My name is Shi Jianqiao. I have avenged my father. I killed Sun Chuanfang. One person acts, one person answers for it—I will never implicate anyone else!”

Then she pulled out the leaflets she had prepared in advance and printed herself, A Letter to My Countrymen, and scattered them across the hall like snowflakes. The leaflets stated plainly that she had killed Sun Chuanfang to avenge her father; now that her great vendetta was fulfilled, she would surrender of her own accord and submit to the law.

The devotees present all fled, and no one helped her call the police—she even wanted to go and turn herself in. In the end it was the hall’s gatekeeper who heard the shots and fetched a patrolman from nearby. Shi Jianqiao voluntarily handed over the pistol and the three remaining bullets, and went with the police to the Tianjin police station to surrender.

The case caused a sensation across the country. A warlord killed, the assassin a woman, the motive revenge for a father—this hit nearly every hot button of the press of the day, and public opinion fell almost entirely on the side of the assassin, Shi Jianqiao. For the Tianjin District Court charged with trying the case, it was without question a hot potato.

A Ten-Year Road to Revenge

It was precisely for this reason that the name Shi Jianqiao—a name with a distinctly chivalrous ring—was written into the history of Chinese law.

The origin of the whole case goes back another ten years, to 1925. This was the time of the Zhili-Fengtian War, with warlords of every stripe locked in a free-for-all. Shi Jianqiao—she did not yet go by that name; she was called Shi Gulan—had a father named Shi Congbin. To be precise, he was her adoptive father. He was a division commander under the Fengtian warlord Zhang Zongchang and served as deputy military commissioner of Anhui. In October 1925, when Sun Chuanfang of the Zhili clique went to war with the Fengtian clique, Shi Congbin was ordered into the field. But he advanced too far alone, with no reinforcements behind him, and near Guzhen in Anhui he was captured by Sun Chuanfang’s troops.

Here we should note some background. Amid all the warlord fighting there was a certain code, an unwritten rule—that prisoners were not to be killed, especially high-ranking generals. Today I capture your man, tomorrow you capture mine; spare a life, and there will be good terms between us later. This was a tacit rule the warlords had honored for years.

But Sun Chuanfang did not honor it.

He had Shi Congbin bound with wire, decapitated, and his head displayed at the Bengbu railway station. The body was left exposed for days, the head hung up for all to see. Worse still—the family was strictly forbidden to collect the body.

Shi Gulan was twenty at the time. For her, that her father had been so brutally killed and defiled, and that she was not even allowed to recover his remains—what kind of hatred was that?

But Shi Gulan was no ordinary woman. She came from an official’s family; her biological father, Shi Congyun, was a martyr of the Luanzhou Uprising during the 1911 Revolution, and every one of these father figures was a person of real standing. A woman from such a family carries in her bones a fierceness that is hard for us to imagine.

When No One Can Be Relied On, You Rely on Yourself

Even so, in that era, the obstacles facing a woman who wanted to take revenge with her own hands were enormous. At first Shi Gulan did not choose to act herself. She tried two paths, and both left her heart cold.

The first path: she went to her cousin, Shi Zhongcheng. This was a man Shi Congbin had personally taken in, raised, and groomed; you could say that without Shi Congbin there would have been no official career for him. When Shi Gulan came to him, he agreed readily enough. But as his rank climbed and he became garrison commander of Yantai, he began making excuses—in plain terms, a man greedy for wealth and rank who would not take the risk. In her fury, Shi Gulan broke off all ties with him as siblings.

The second path was a fellow provincial, a lieutenant-colonel named Shi Jinggong. This man sought out Shi Gulan on his own, saying he deeply sympathized with the Shi family’s plight and was willing to help her take revenge. In that era, for a man to say such a thing to a woman, the meaning was clear. Shi Gulan, by then nearly at the end of her rope, even broke the traditional taboo of “one husband for life,” married Shi Jinggong, and bore him two children.

And the result? As Shi Jinggong’s career flourished, he grew more and more afraid of death, and in the end he went back on his word entirely—forbidding Shi Gulan ever to speak the word “revenge” again.

It was then that Shi Gulan wrote a few lines of verse. Let me read them aloud:

Sparing not my life, to avenge my father— / year after year unavenged, the grief wears on. / With a foolish heart I begged others for aid; / in the end I must step forward myself.

In the end, relying on anyone was useless. She could rely only on herself.

Changing Her Name

And so Shi Gulan did something with great ceremony.

She changed her name. “Gulan,” in Shi Gulan, means “orchid in an empty valley”—a very traditional, gentle woman’s name. She changed it to “Shi Jianqiao,” drawn from the lines “raising my head to gaze at the bright moon, drawing my sword toward the blue sky.”

For a woman to change her own name into a “code name for revenge”—this showed she had already made up her mind. This had to be done, and she was already prepared to pay any price for it.

She wrote a farewell letter to her husband, her children, and her youngest sister, and, taking her two sons, went to Tianjin.

Closing In, Step by Step

Once in Tianjin, Shi Jianqiao began a months-long pursuit. How did she find Sun Chuanfang?

In the spring of 1933, while accompanying her son to school, she ran into a servant of Sun Chuanfang’s young daughter at the gate of a private primary school, and thus learned the Sun family’s address.

In June 1935, in Taiyuan, Shanxi, she bought a Browning pistol and matching ammunition.

In the autumn of 1935, she saw the Sun family again at the opening ceremony of a middle school in Shanghai; this time she memorized the license plate of the Sun family’s black sedan—1093. She then went to cinemas in Tianjin and, from the radio, learned to recognize Sun Chuanfang’s voice and face.

On the day before the Double Tenth of 1935—the anniversary of Shi Congbin’s death—she went to the Guanyin Temple to burn paper offerings and chant sutras for her father. There, she happened to overhear that Sun Chuanfang often went to chant sutras at a place in Tianjin called Jushilin.

Shi Jianqiao then disguised herself as a “devotee” and, through the introduction of a woman lay practitioner, joined Jushilin. She went twice, observing Sun Chuanfang’s seat during the service until she knew it clearly. In the meantime, she bought a mimeograph machine, cut the stencils herself and printed alone, producing multiple copies of the A Letter to My Countrymen leaflet. On each leaflet, beside the signature “the avenging daughter Shi Jianqiao,” she left a print of her own thumb.

This was Tianjin in 1935. Outside, a world in chaos; at home, hatred. She was doing a thing she knew would change the course of her whole life. What came next you have already heard: in that Buddhist hall, Shi Jianqiao shot Sun Chuanfang dead in public and was taken away on the spot by the patrolman.

Rites and Law: A Problem Harder than the Tang Dynasty’s

With the story at this point, we come to the very heart of the case—the trial.

The theme of this episode is the “clash of rites and law.” The Xu Yuanqing revenge case we discussed in episode 2 took place in the Tang dynasty. In the Tang, the relationship between rites and law was essentially one of “the unity of rites and law”—in the Old Book of Tang, in a memorial, Zhang Yue wrote that “virtue and rites are the foundation of governance, punishment and law its instruments.” The law itself served to uphold Confucian ethics, so when someone avenged a father, the judge faced not an either-or choice but the question of how to strike a balance within a single value system.

But by 1935, the situation was entirely different.

Beginning with the legal reforms of the late Qing, China’s legal system underwent a thorough Westernization. By the 1930s, the Nationalist government in Nanjing had promulgated the Six Codes—the constitution, civil law, criminal law, commercial law, the code of civil procedure, and the code of criminal procedure—a vast and intricate framework of supreme law. This system was built on the foundation of modern state theory. That is to say, in a modern society the state alone holds a monopoly on the power to punish. Any private redress, any private vengeance, any blood feud is, in the logic of modern rule of law, absolutely forbidden.

This produced a fundamental contradiction. In China, at least since the Han dynasty, “one does not live under the same sky as the killer of one’s father” had been an ethical creed engraved in the bone. The Book of Rites says, “For the enemy of one’s father, one does not live under the same sky.” To avenge a father was not a choice but a duty. A person who did not avenge his father was, in social ethics, unfit to be called a person.

But modern criminal law says that killing is killing; however good the motive, it is merely a factor to be considered at the sentencing stage, and can never serve as grounds for acquittal.

This is where the true tension of the Shi Jianqiao case lies—it is not merely a question of guilt or innocence, but a collision between traditional ethics and modern law, between two utterly different sets of ideas.

Three Statutes, One Point of Contention

Let us look concretely at the three articles of the 1935 Criminal Code of the Republic of China that bear on this case.

First, Article 271, paragraph 1: “Whoever kills a person shall be punished with death, life imprisonment, or imprisonment for not less than ten years.” This is the conviction. Shi Jianqiao fired three shots and Sun Chuanfang died on the spot; the facts were beyond dispute, with no argument to be had.

Second, Article 62—the provision on mitigation for voluntary surrender: “Whoever surrenders for a crime not yet discovered and submits to trial shall have his punishment reduced.” In the criminal law of the time this was a “mandatory reduction”—so long as surrender was found, the sentence had to be reduced. And here a point of contention arose: Shi Jianqiao had intended to surrender voluntarily before the killing, but she was seized by the patrolman the gatekeeper had summoned before she could even place the call to the police. Did this count as “surrender” in the legal sense?

Third, Article 59—the provision on discretionary mitigation: “Where the circumstances of a crime are such as to merit compassion, the punishment may be discretionarily reduced.” This was a “may reduce”—not mandatory, but left to the judge’s discretion. This was the one crack in the case through which the traditional ethic of “filial devotion” could be slipped into the modern legal framework.

Three statutes, one point of contention. Next we look at how the Republic’s three tiers of courts understood this logic.

Three Tiers, Three Trials

First, the Tianjin District Court, at first instance, handed down its verdict on December 16, 1935—ten years’ imprisonment.

In this verdict, the judge accepted “surrender” but refused “discretionary mitigation.”

The judge held in the opinion that Shi Jianqiao did not flee after the killing but turned herself in, which accorded with the spirit of surrender, and so reduced the sentence under Article 62. The statutory minimum for homicide was ten years, and surrender was a mandatory-reduction provision, so following the statutory minimum, the court imposed ten years—already the lightest punishment the legal framework allowed.

But at the same time the judge refused to apply Article 59. The reasoning: the court had already used the surrender provision to reduce the sentence to the minimum, but to formally acknowledge in law that “avenging one’s father” could serve as grounds for mitigation—modern criminal law could not open that door.

This was the first instance’s balance: procedurally it credited the sincerity of your conduct; substantively it refused to credit the rightness of your reason.

Neither prosecution nor defense was satisfied with the verdict. The defense thought it too heavy, the prosecution too light. Both sides appealed.

Next, the Hebei High Court, at second instance, handed down its verdict on February 11, 1936—seven years’ imprisonment.

For the whole of Chinese legal philosophy this verdict is a remarkable specimen. The appellate judge did something quite “sophisticated.”

He first corrected the first instance’s finding of “surrender.” He said that under Article 62, one premise for finding surrender is a “crime not yet discovered,” an element expressly required by the criminal law. Shi Jianqiao had committed the act in broad daylight; the fact of the crime and the identity of the offender were known to the public the very instant the shot was fired—this was not a “crime not yet discovered,” and so could not count as surrender. Article 62 did not apply.

Procedurally, he tightened the interpretation of surrender and preserved the rigor of the statute.

And then? He turned around and applied Article 59 instead. His wording was that Shi Jianqiao’s “biological father died a terrible death; she avenged what touched her to the quick; moved by filial devotion, she is truly deserving of compassion.”

In other words: I will not give you a procedural pass, but on the merits I openly acknowledge that avenging one’s father, by the traditional ethics of the Chinese, is “truly deserving of compassion.” In the end I reduce your sentence from ten years to seven, not because procedure favors you, but because in the motive of your act there is a moral weight worthy of our serious regard.

This was the appellate judge’s cleverness: let procedure be procedure and sentiment be sentiment; keep the two lines distinct.

Finally, the Supreme Court in Nanjing, at third instance, ruled on August 1, 1936—the appeal was dismissed and the second instance’s verdict of seven years upheld.

The Supreme Court’s stance was perfectly clear: the second instance’s application of the law was sound, its legal reasoning beyond reproach, and its weighing of the circumstances forgivable. Seven years’ imprisonment was the final word on the case.

Here the judicial process came to an end. Three tiers, three logics, arriving at last on a seemingly compromise number—seven years—that reached a certain subtle balance.

But the story was not over.

A Precedent: The Zheng Jicheng Case

The reason the Shi Jianqiao case became “the strangest case of the Republic” lies, to a large degree, not in how the courts handled it, but in what happened after the courts had ruled.

Let us look outside the courtroom.

First, there was a very important “precedent.” In 1932, three years before the Shi case, a man named Zheng Jicheng shot dead the Fengtian warlord and Shandong military governor Zhang Zongchang on the spot at the Jinan railway station. Zheng Jicheng’s stepfather, Zheng Jinsheng, had been killed by Zhang Zongchang. After firing, Zheng Jicheng surrendered on the spot. That case, too, caused a nationwide sensation, and society launched a vast “movement to redress the wrong.” In the end, under the forceful intervention of Feng Yuxiang, Han Fuju, and others, Zheng Jicheng served only about a week before being pardoned by the Nationalist government.

The pardon in the “Zheng Jicheng case” established, in the social psyche, a key point—that “the state does recognize filial revenge.” So the moment the Shi case arose, public opinion immediately began drawing comparisons: since you could pardon Zheng Jicheng, on what grounds do you refuse to pardon Shi Jianqiao?

Public Opinion, Politics, and a Pawn

The second factor was the amplification of the media. In the 1930s, China’s urban newspaper industry was in a golden age. The Xin Tianjin Bao and Da Gong Bao of Tianjin and the Shen Bao of Shanghai all ran “extras” the very day the Shi case occurred. The copies of A Letter to My Countrymen Shi Jianqiao had printed in advance, and the poem she wrote beginning “Sparing not my life, to avenge my father,” were printed again and again in the papers.

The media crafted for her the image of a “Republican-era swordswoman.” A frail woman who endured in silence for ten years and cast aside wealth, rank, and family happiness, all to fulfill a single word: “filial piety.” In the Chinese society of the time, this narrative had enormous force.

Even more moving was her conduct in prison. After being jailed, Shi Jianqiao found that fellow women inmates had no cotton clothes for the winter because they were poor, so she paid out of her own pocket to buy them cotton garments. Once the papers reported this, another halo settled over her—this was a person who acted not for herself but for others.

The third factor, and the most crucial, was political.

Shi Jianqiao’s adoptive father, Shi Congbin, had been an old subordinate of Feng Yuxiang’s in the Central Plains War. More importantly, her biological father, Shi Congyun, was one of the principal instigators of the Luanzhou Uprising in the 1911 Revolution. And who was the other principal instigator of the Luanzhou Uprising? Feng Yuxiang.

And what was the relationship between Feng Yuxiang and Sun Chuanfang? During the warlord melee, Sun Chuanfang had defeated Feng Yuxiang’s Northwest Army, and among those defeated was Feng Yuxiang’s sworn brother Zheng Jinsheng. So the moment Feng Yuxiang heard of Shi Jianqiao’s deed, he sprang into action. He joined with Yu Youren, Zhang Ji, Song Zheyuan, and other Republican elder statesmen in a joint petition for a pardon.

Some prominent women within the Nationalist Party, such as Zhang Mojun, were also at work, jointly petitioning the central authorities for a general amnesty.

On September 25, 1936, Ju Zheng, president of the Judicial Yuan, personally chaired a Yuan session and brought up Shi Jianqiao’s pardon as a provisional motion, resolving on the spot to petition the Nationalist government for a special pardon.

Behind the Pardon Order

On October 14, 1936, Lin Sen, chairman of the Nationalist government, signed the pardon order.

The text of the order read like this:

“Shi Jianqiao, because her father Shi Congbin was in earlier years done to death by Sun Chuanfang, was moved to avenge her father, and so killed Sun in a Buddhist hall, thereupon at once surrendering to the court… Considering her act of killing, it does indeed violate the criminal law; yet inasmuch as a single woman, stirred by filial devotion, cast aside all thought of self, she is hereby specially pardoned, as a token of compassion.”

This passage conveyed two signals. First, “considering her act of killing, it does indeed violate the criminal law”—I acknowledge that you broke the law, and the majesty of modern criminal law must be upheld. Second, “inasmuch as a single woman, stirred by filial devotion, cast aside all thought of self”—but you acted out of filial devotion, and this I understand, forgive, and pardon.

This pardon order was issued under Article 68 of the Provisional Constitution of the Political Tutelage Period of the Republic of China. In that era, the head of state’s power of pardon was a kind of sovereign exception—it rode above ordinary judicial procedure and could, after the law had exhausted every means, deliver one final “rule-by-man verdict.”

But we cannot see only the “rule by man.” Behind this pardon, the political purpose is worth pondering.

After Sun Chuanfang fell from power and retired, he had all along been colluding with the Japanese, seeking to instigate North China autonomy. For the Nationalist government in Nanjing, Sun Chuanfang was in any case a “political hazard” that needed to be removed. Shi Jianqiao’s single shot, in a sense, solved a problem for Chiang Kai-shek’s government.

Besides, what year was 1936? The footsteps of Japan’s invasion of China were drawing ever closer, and North China was tottering. At such a juncture, Chiang Kai-shek needed to win over every force he could. By pardoning Shi Jianqiao, he handed a great political favor to Feng Yuxiang, Song Zheyuan, and other figures of the Northwest Army and the regional power-holders.

So a pardon order, ostensibly a matter of “filial piety,” was in reality a move in a grand game of political chess.

Afterward

Shi Jianqiao actually spent nine months and ten days in prison.

After her release, her life was no less remarkable. When the War of Resistance broke out, she divorced her husband and threw herself into the fight against Japan. She served as head of the Women’s Association for Resistance Support and of the Suzhou Refugee Association, and launched a campaign to raise funds to buy warplanes. She led the way by donating her own jewelry of many years, and she mobilized Feng Yuxiang’s brothers to raise funds together, with Feng personally going into the homes of wealthy merchants and gentry to make his case. In the end they truly raised enough to buy a fighter plane. She was called “the leader of the plane-fundraising campaign.”

After the victory in the War of Resistance, in 1946, with the support of Feng Yuxiang, Yu Youren, and others, she founded a private “Congyun Primary School” in Suzhou—“Congyun” being the name of her biological father, Shi Congyun. It was devoted to taking in children of impoverished families and orphans of fallen soldiers. During this time she came into contact with Dong Biwu, Zhou Enlai, and other senior figures of the Communist Party, and her thinking gradually leaned left.

After the founding of the People’s Republic, she was elected chair of the executive committee of the Suzhou Women’s Federation; in 1957 she became a specially invited member of the Beijing People’s Political Consultative Conference. She died of illness on August 27, 1979, at the age of seventy-four.

Coda

With the story at this point, we return to the theme of this episode: the clash of rites and law.

The Xu Yuanqing case and the Shi Jianqiao case were separated by more than a thousand years, yet their core question was one and the same: when a person kills for the sake of “filial piety,” what is the law to do?

The Tang dynasty’s choice was “the unity of rites and law,” reconciling the matter within a single, unified value system. And the choice of the Republic’s three tiers of courts? As I see it, they ran into a problem harder than the Tang’s—the legal system had already modernized; sentiment and law were no longer of the same source, and law and ethics no longer flowed from one wellspring. Within this framework, what the judges could do was, in the crevices of statutory law, use technical provisions like “surrender” and “discretionary mitigation” to give traditional ethical ideas a small place to rest.

You could call this “cutting the foot to fit the shoe,” or you could call it “dancing in chains”—but however you judge it, at the purely technical level of law, the three tiers of courts performed an exceptionally exquisite operation.

And then the pardon order came. By way of the “sovereign exception,” politics accomplished what the law could not—and did not want to—do: it gave revenge a safe and dignified ending.

Whether this was a failure of the rule of law or a triumph of humanity, different people will give different answers. But at least one thing is certain: from Xu Yuanqing to Shi Jianqiao, from “rites above law” to “a compromise between sentiment and law,” China’s legal minds have never truly let go of the problem of “filial piety and revenge.”

Key Figures

• Shi Jianqiao: Avenged her father by assassinating Sun Chuanfang and became a focus of public opinion in modern criminal justice.
• Sun Chuanfang: A Beiyang warlord and the target of Shi Jianqiao’s revenge.
• Shi Congbin: Shi Jianqiao’s father, whose death began the revenge narrative.
• Feng Yuxiang and Yan Xishan: Important figures in the promises of revenge and the Republican political background.
• The Nationalist Government: The political authority that ultimately changed the case through a pardon.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Shi Jianqiao’s assassination of Sun Chuanfang: A landmark Republican-era case where revenge, public opinion, criminal law, and politics intertwined.
• Three tiers and three trials: The modern judicial process through the district court, high court, and Supreme Court.
• Pardon: A tool through which political power intervenes in the execution of a criminal judgment.
• Rites versus law: The renewed conflict between traditional filial duty and modern state criminal law.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 02｜The Xu Yuanqing Revenge Case: Tang Law and the Rites–Law Debate : Reads an earlier debate over revenge and state law through the Tang Xu Yuanqing case.

This is the transcript of episode 06 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcast . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On June 30, 2026, the U.S. Supreme Court handed down its final, substantive judgment on the question of birthright citizenship. By a 6-3 vote, the nine justices struck down the Trump administration’s Executive Order No. 14160, further cementing the birthright citizenship guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment. This is a judgment worthy of a place in the annals of American constitutional history.

Last year, the Court had already ruled once on this same matter. But that was a procedural ruling, and in its outcome it favored the Trump administration; this year’s judgment, by contrast, is exactly the opposite—a substantive rejection of the order itself. Over the course of more than a year, from the signing of the order, to the fight over nationwide injunctions, to a last-ditch counterattack through class action, and finally to the showdown at the Supreme Court, the whole saga rose and fell dramatically. In this piece, I want to tell that story from beginning to end, in careful detail.

The Starting Point: An Order Overturning a Century-Old Constitutional Principle

Let’s go back to where it all began.

On January 20, 2025, on the very first day of his second term, Trump signed Executive Order No. 14160, titled “Protecting the Meaning and Value of American Citizenship.” The name was grand, but what it sought to overturn was a constitutional principle more than a century old, one many regard as a foundation stone of the nation—birthright citizenship. That principle guarantees that any child born on U.S. soil, regardless of the parents’ status, automatically becomes a U.S. citizen. Trump’s order directed all federal agencies to stop granting this, to no longer automatically confer citizenship on certain babies born in the United States.

Which babies, exactly? The scope was very broad. It covered not only the children of illegal immigrants, but also the children of people who were here legally but only for a short stay—those on student visas, work visas, or tourist visas—whose children would likewise no longer automatically become U.S. citizens.

Here is a figure to give you a concrete sense of scale: if this order had actually taken effect, roughly 250,000 newborns per year would have been affected. About 150,000 of them from undocumented families, and about 100,000 from families here legally but on short-term stays.

The moment the order was signed, American society erupted. Democratic-led states—Massachusetts, Washington, Maryland, New Hampshire—together with a range of immigrant-rights organizations, filed suit almost overnight. Judges in several federal district courts quickly issued temporary injunctions.

CASA: The Blade of the Nationwide Injunction Is Snapped

A temporary injunction is a provisional measure meant to protect the plaintiffs in a case. Federal courts around the country found that Trump’s order abolishing birthright citizenship substantively violated the plaintiffs’ constitutional rights, and so, before the case reached final judgment, they temporarily blocked the order.

But here was the sticking point: these temporary injunctions were not limited to the plaintiffs in the case—they extended nationwide. The Trump administration seized on precisely this point and took the case straight to the Supreme Court. Their core demand was clever: not to argue whether the order was unconstitutional, but to challenge the legitimacy of the “nationwide injunction” as a judicial tool itself.

On June 27, 2025, the Supreme Court ruled 6-3, with Justice Barrett writing the majority opinion. The core logic was this: the relief a federal court can provide has, since time immemorial, been strictly limited to the parties to the litigation, and there is no such thing as a “universal remedy” benefiting the whole country. She advanced a concept she called the “complete-relief principle”—the scope of a court’s injunction need only be enough to provide complete relief to the plaintiff, and not one inch more.

In other words, if a pregnant mother sues as a plaintiff, the court need only enjoin the government from applying the order to her own child, and that already gives her “complete relief.” Extending the injunction to every other mother in the country would not make this plaintiff-mother’s relief any more “complete.”

So the Court’s conclusion was: dissolve the nationwide injunctions, and preserve only the protection for the named plaintiffs.

The direct consequence of this judgment was a serious disparity in enforcement between the states. A baby born in a plaintiff state like New Jersey, versus one born in a state like Texas that had not joined the litigation, would face completely different mechanisms for determining citizenship. For a single, unified federal constitutional right, this is unthinkable—you cannot have some children automatically becoming Americans and others not, simply because they were born in different states.

Class Action: The Counterattack

This judicial fracture forced the plaintiffs into a crucial strategic pivot—the class action.

On the very day the Supreme Court handed down its CASA ruling, the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) immediately filed a new suit, expressly seeking to have it certified as a nationwide class action.

It was a deft move. Because in her majority opinion, Barrett had in fact hinted that although the path of the “universal injunction” was now closed off, if you could satisfy the strict requirements of a class action—numerosity, commonality of legal questions, adequate representation—you could still seek relief covering the whole country.

And so, on July 10, 2025, a federal judge in New Hampshire granted preliminary certification of the class action, grouping every baby born after February 19, 2025 who was affected by the order, together with their parents, into a single class, and reissued a temporary injunction. This maneuver, at the eleventh hour, bridged the differences between the states, prevented the order from taking real effect, and paved the way for the eventual constitutional review.

Certiorari Before Judgment, and a Historic Oral Argument

In the second half of 2025, the litigation went through a series of procedural tugs-of-war. By December 2025, the Supreme Court made a rare move: it granted certiorari before judgment—skipping the circuit court of appeals and taking the case directly.

This is a fairly uncommon move for the Supreme Court. It meant the nine justices considered the case so important that they could not wait for the normal appellate process; they had to act now.

On April 1, 2026, the Court held oral argument. There is a historic detail here worth dwelling on: President Trump himself attended the oral argument in person. This was the first time in American history that a sitting president had personally sat in on a Supreme Court oral argument, and the image itself carried enormous symbolic weight.

At the argument, Deputy Solicitor General John Sauer, representing the government, tried to rewrite the history of the Citizenship Clause. His core argument was that people had long misread the Fourteenth Amendment. That phrase in the amendment, “subject to the jurisdiction thereof,” he said, was by no means merely geographic jurisdiction, but required the parents to have formed a permanent, exclusive relationship of allegiance to the United States—a lawful, domiciliary presence. On this logic, because illegal overstayers and short-term visa holders had not severed their allegiance to their home countries, their children ought not automatically become U.S. citizens.

The plaintiffs’ lawyer, Cecilia Wang, responded very directly. The order, she said, not only conflicted with the text of the Constitution, it was a flagrant defiance of more than a century of settled interpretation and precedent.

How intense were the two hours of argument? I read through the transcript that later circulated, and the justices’ questions came down like rain, barely giving counsel room to breathe. You could feel, viscerally, the weight of this case.

The Endgame: A 6-3 Victory, a 5-4 Anxiety

Now let’s turn to the very heart of the matter.

On June 30, 2026, the Supreme Court issued its final judgment. First, the vote: on the surface, the Court struck down Executive Order 14160 by 6-3, declaring the Trump administration’s ultimate defeat. But on the core question of whether the order was unconstitutional, the majority was in fact only five votes—an advantage of a single vote. That means there were very sharp divisions among the justices.

This subtle gap between “6-3” and “5-to-something” is the most intriguing feature of the whole judgment, and I’ll unpack it in detail below.

Roberts’s Majority Opinion: Three Historical Pillars

Let’s first read carefully the majority opinion written by Chief Justice Roberts. In my view, this is one of the best opinions Roberts has written in recent years—the logic is exceptionally clear, and it takes the government’s arguments apart cleanly. He built three historical pillars.

Pillar One: The Territoriality of English Common Law

Roberts takes us back several centuries to England. He cites a very famous case in English history—Calvin’s Case. That case established a principle:

A child born within the territory of the sovereign naturally owes “allegiance” to that sovereign and enjoys the sovereign’s protection, no matter how “transient and uncertain” the parents’ presence within that territory may be.

Roberts then says the American founding generation was deeply influenced by English common law, and especially by Chief Justice Marshall’s formulation: a sovereign nation holds “full and absolute power” over everything within its territory. Whatever status you entered the United States under, so long as your person is now on U.S. soil, you must obey U.S. law and are subject to the jurisdiction of U.S. courts and police. This jurisdiction has only one extremely narrow exception: only people enjoying extraterritoriality—like the children of foreign ambassadors to the United States, or the children of a hostile occupying army—fall outside U.S. jurisdiction. If you have a child in the United States, then geographically, territorially, you are subject to U.S. jurisdiction. You cannot escape it.

Pillar Two: The Total Repudiation of Dred Scott

In 1857, that infamous Dred Scott case—the Supreme Court then ruled that Black people were not citizens. The logical foundation of that judgment was to base citizenship on “blood,” rather than on “soil.”

Roberts states plainly in the judgment that the Reconstruction statutes passed after the Civil War, and the Fourteenth Amendment that followed, had as their very purpose the complete abolition of this exclusionary standard based on bloodline and race. To bring blood back into it now is to negate the very reason the Fourteenth Amendment exists.

Pillar Three: Reaffirming Wong Kim Ark

Wong Kim Ark was the son of a Chinese laborer, born in San Francisco; because of the Chinese Exclusion Act of the time, his parents could never be naturalized as U.S. citizens. Yet in 1898 the Supreme Court ruled clearly: he was born in the United States, therefore he was a U.S. citizen, and it had nothing to do with his parents’ immigration status.

Here the Trump administration mounted a very cunning defense. They argued that Wong Kim Ark’s parents had a “permanent domicile” in the United States at the time, and so the precedent did not apply to illegal overstayers or short-term visa holders.

How did Roberts respond? He dug out the historical records of the period, and concluded: the 1898 Supreme Court never treated “permanent domicile” as a precondition for birthright citizenship. That phrase simply is not part of the core logic of that judgment.

Then Roberts said something I particularly love. Executive Order 14160, he noted, is stuffed with qualifying words—“mother,” “father,” “lawful,” “temporary”—not one of which appears in the Constitution’s Citizenship Clause, for a simple reason: they are irrelevant.

Jackson’s Concurrence: An Anti-Caste, Anti-Subordination Reboot

Having covered Roberts, let’s turn to Justice Jackson’s concurrence. She is the youngest justice, nominated by Biden, and a member of the Court’s progressive wing. Her concurrence is, in my personal view, the most intellectually profound part of the entire judgment.

Jackson advanced a concept—she called the Reconstruction-era constitutional amendments the nation’s “anti-caste, anti-subordination reboot.” If you understand the Fourteenth Amendment merely as “a remedy for the particular evil of slavery,” she said, you have badly underestimated it. Its aim was far larger—to eliminate entirely any possibility of creating a permanent second-class caste within this country.

She issued a very forceful warning: if you allow the executive branch to strip particular children of birthright citizenship based on the status and lineage of their parents, you will manufacture within the United States a permanent, marginalized, second-class citizen caste. And that is precisely the social poison the Fourteenth Amendment was meant to eradicate for good.

It is a powerful passage. Because it pulls the question out of the dry debate over constitutional hermeneutics and places it in a grander sociological and political-philosophical dimension—behind the question of “who is an American” lies the question of how a nation defines itself and how it treats its most vulnerable.

The Time Bomb Kavanaugh Planted

Now let’s turn to Justice Kavanaugh.

Kavanaugh voted to strike down the order, and it was his vote that made the final margin 6-3. But when I read his opinion—concurring in part and dissenting in part—I genuinely gasped. Because buried inside it is an enormous time bomb.

He stressed two things.

First, he held that Trump’s order violated statutory law, not the Constitution. The statute he meant is the Immigration and Nationality Act—a law that has already codified broad territorial rules of citizenship in statutory form. So the order conflicts with existing law and should be struck down.

Second—and this is the crux—he went on immediately to say: the Fourteenth Amendment itself does not prohibit Congress from restricting birthright citizenship by legislation. In other words, Congress could, without violating the Constitution, pass a new law abolishing birthright citizenship for the children of illegal immigrants and short-term residents.

What Kavanaugh means is: though the president cannot decide this unilaterally, so long as you go through Congress, you can lawfully abolish birthright citizenship. The right itself is not protected by the Constitution; you can take it away by ordinary legislation.

This amounts to handing conservatives a road map.

And because Kavanaugh declined to join Roberts’s majority opinion, on the fundamental question of whether the order itself is unconstitutional, the tally became 5-3-1:

• Five who found it unconstitutional: Roberts (Chief), Sotomayor, Kagan, Barrett, Jackson;
• Three who found it constitutional: Thomas, Alito, Gorsuch;
• Kavanaugh: finding only a statutory violation, abstaining on the constitutional question.

This means only five justices support the conclusion that “birthright citizenship is a constitutional right.” Should any one of them leave the bench in the coming years and be replaced by a conservative, this fragile majority would instantly flip to 5-4.

Demographically, Sotomayor is already in her seventies this year, and Roberts is seventy. If Trump gets one more nomination in his remaining term, this fragile majority will collapse in an instant. And at that point, birthright citizenship would no longer be a constitutionally guaranteed right.

For liberals, this is not a war already won. It is merely a position held for now.

Giving the Three Conservative Dissents a Fair Hearing

As a piece of commentary that tries to be responsible, I must also lay out the conservative minority’s voices clearly, and in as fair-minded a way as I can. Because these three justices’ arguments, too, rest on very serious, self-contained foundations of constitutional theory.

First, Justice Thomas, an exceptionally steadfast and diligent originalist. He wrote a 91-page dissent all on his own. His core argument is: you have all misread the phrase “subject to the jurisdiction thereof” in the Fourteenth Amendment. When Congress drafted the amendment in 1866, “subject to the jurisdiction” did not mean the simple, geographic, territorial jurisdiction the majority takes it to mean, but required a complete and exclusive political allegiance. In the common sense of the nineteenth century, he says, a citizen is not someone who happens to be passing through a piece of territory. A citizen is someone rooted there, who treats the place as a permanent home, who is willing to fight for it when war comes. Short-term visitors, foreign students, those who slip across the border—their political allegiance to their homelands has not been severed, so by what right do their children automatically become American citizens? Thomas also cites specific provisions of the Reconstruction statutes, which, in defining citizens, expressly excluded “persons subject to any foreign power.” This, he says, fully proves that the lawmakers of the day never intended to grant citizenship to temporary aliens who had not yet renounced their foreign allegiance.

I may disagree with Thomas’s conclusion, but I cannot deny that his reasoning is solid. The 91-page opinion draws on a vast body of nineteenth-century congressional debate records, contemporaneous legal dictionaries, and works of political philosophy. It furnishes ample ammunition to anyone who might, in the future, try to challenge birthright citizenship along originalist lines.

Next, Justice Alito, who wrote a separate dissent with a very specific focus: birth tourism. He offered a set of figures: each year some twenty thousand-plus foreign pregnant women fly to the United States specifically on tourist visas to give birth, precisely so that the child can obtain a U.S. passport. Alito argued that the majority’s judgment would greatly incentivize this behavior, and that this is a total departure from the framers’ original intent. He also raised the problem of dual nationality: if a baby automatically acquires the parents’ home-country nationality at birth, then where is his “exclusive allegiance” to the United States?

Finally, Justice Gorsuch, whose angle of dissent is more technical, resting on procedure. He argued that the plaintiffs had brought a “facial constitutional challenge,” and that under the standards of American constitutional litigation, for a facial challenge to succeed, you must prove that the statute is unconstitutional in all its applications. Gorsuch said that even granting the order is unconstitutional in some situations—say, for undocumented immigrants who have lived in the United States for a long time—can it nonetheless be lawfully applied to the children of people purely on tourist visas who stay two weeks and leave? If it can, then a facial challenge should not sweep away the entire order. He also criticized the majority for over-relying on the English common-law tradition, arguing that the American founding spirit has its own distinctive understanding of citizenship, and that you cannot simply import England’s tradition of territoriality and treat it as the interpretation of the U.S. Constitution.

Not the End, but Halftime

Having come this far, let me say something that may not be easy to hear: although the June 30 judgment was hailed by many as a “victory,” in my view it looks more like halftime. The fighting has merely shifted from the judicial battlefield to two others.

Battlefield one: peripheral strikes at the executive level.

After the judgment, Trump raged on Truth Social, calling it a “national disaster.” But the people around him reacted faster. Former border official Tom Homan immediately declared: since the Supreme Court won’t let us take the constitutional road, we’ll use executive means to hit birth tourism “double, triple.” How? For example, recommending that the State Department add a mandatory pregnancy-status review to the visa application form, requiring pregnant applicants to make an additional declaration; for example, sharply restricting the entry of pregnant women; some have even proposed limiting the “chain migration” quotas by which children who obtained citizenship by being born in the United States can later petition for green cards for relatives abroad. None of these touches the constitutional debate, but the effect is the same—they will make birth tourism extremely difficult.

Battlefield two: legislation.

This is the true significance of Kavanaugh’s time bomb. After the judgment came down, Trump quickly changed his tune, saying Congress “should begin today” legislating to abolish birthright citizenship. He stressed that this path requires neither a two-thirds majority in Congress nor ratification by three-quarters of the states—that is the path of a constitutional amendment—all you need is ordinary legislation. Conservative lawmakers like Senator Mike Lee and Representative Brian Babin have already stirred into motion; the birthright-citizenship bill they are pushing takes direct aim at amending that clause defining citizenship in the Immigration and Nationality Act.

But here lies an interesting legal predicament. As many constitutional scholars have pointed out: of the nine justices on the Supreme Court, five have already said clearly that birthright citizenship is a constitutional right guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment. If Congress passes an ordinary law to amend it, then once that law reaches the Supreme Court again, these five majority justices would in all likelihood still rule it unconstitutional.

So from a purely legal standpoint, the road Kavanaugh drew is actually a dead end—at least so long as the composition of the Supreme Court remains unchanged, it goes nowhere. But its real function is this: it tells conservatives that your enemy is not the Constitution itself, but these five people on the Supreme Court. Replace just one of them, and everything becomes possible.

And so a constitutional right—birthright citizenship—is transformed into a question of Supreme Court personnel.

Two Intertwined Threads

Here, let me offer a brief summary. Put all these cases together, and you can actually see two threads intertwining.

The first thread is the boundary of judicial power. CASA tells us that the power of a single federal district judge is being redefined—where once he could cover the entire country with a single injunction, now he cannot. To seek broad relief, you must go through the more complex procedure of a class action. This raising of the threshold is no accident; it is the carefully engineered result of the Supreme Court’s conservative majority—it markedly diminishes the ability of a single judge to block a president’s executive order.

The second thread is the nature of citizenship. The majority opinion in the final judgment held the line on the principle of territoriality established in 1866, and did not let this country return to an age defined by bloodline. But that fragile five-vote majority, hanging over everyone’s head, is a constant reminder of just how fragile this consensus is.

As I wrote this piece, I kept returning to the passage Justice Jackson wrote in her concurrence. The true aim of the Fourteenth Amendment, she said, is to forestall the creation of a permanent second-class citizen caste within American society. And if you allow a parent’s immigration status to draw a line through the child, you are burying that line in the very soil of this country.

Today, that line has been pulled out—for now. But whether it can be planted back in depends on every political choice yet to come, every judicial appointment, and every American’s answer to this question:

A child born on this land—by virtue of what, exactly, does he become an American?

Key Figures

• Donald Trump: Used Executive Order 14160 to try to restrict birthright citizenship.
• John Roberts: Wrote the majority opinion, confirming birthright citizenship while addressing the scope of relief.
• Sonia Sotomayor, Elena Kagan, and Ketanji Brown Jackson: Defended the Fourteenth Amendment principle from different angles.
• Brett Kavanaugh: Left room for later disputes over procedure and remedies.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Executive Order 14160: The direct policy instrument by which the Trump administration challenged birthright citizenship.
• CASA: A procedural dispute over nationwide injunctions and the scope of enforcing the order.
• Class action: An important path for broad relief after nationwide injunctions were limited.
• The Fourteenth Amendment and birthright citizenship: The core constitutional rule governing citizenship for those born in the United States.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 03｜How Trump Challenges the Constitution: The Legal Battle over Birthright Citizenship : Introduces the background, Wong Kim Ark, and procedural starting point of the dispute.

It’s a multi-agent web-novel writing toolkit built for tools like Claude Code , Codex, and Hermes Agent . Simply put, it lets you form a virtual novel studio with six AI agents that take a story from project planning, worldbuilding, outlines, and setting cards all the way through to the manuscript, the final edit, and cover illustrations. You only need to hand it a rough concept.

Why Build a Pipeline for Writing Fiction

A pipeline for video makes intuitive sense: video is already a divided job—research, scripting, voiceover, editing. But writing a novel sounds like one holistic act. Why break it apart?

Because I’ve written long-form with a single large model myself, and I kept hitting the same potholes:

• It drifts the longer it goes. At the start it remembers the protagonist has a scar on their left hand; by chapter thirty that scar has vanished. Settings, names, places—they quietly start contradicting each other.
• It collapses when asked to write too much at once. Tell the model to “keep going,” and it either rushes through a few paragraphs to wrap up, or it starts forgetting earlier events once the context fills up.
• A strong “AI flavor.” Just like with video scripts, models love to pile on ornate parallelism and grandiose adjectives in prose, and it reads as fake.

All of these come down to one thing: a single brain trying to manage the global setting and the line-by-line writing at the same time. So I wanted to try the same trick as the video project—split novel creation into roles that each own one slice, and have them hand off through files rather than relying on one conversation’s context to carry everything.

Six Agents, Each Owning One Slice

In this project, I broke novel creation into six roles:

• Chief Editor: The studio’s general manager. Receives your concept, drafts the implementation plan, drives the workflow, reports back in stages, and signs off on final delivery.
• Architect: Lays the foundation. Worldbuilding, the synopsis, and chapter outlines all come from here.
• Lore Master: Turns abstract settings into concrete “cards”—character cards, location cards, key-item cards, key-plot cards—a dictionary the writer can look things up in.
• Writer: Drafts the manuscript in batches.
• Editor: Polishes the prose and checks it item by item against the synopsis and the setting cards for consistency.
• Designer: Produces text-to-image prompts and specs for the cover, character art, and key-scene illustrations.

Above all of them sits a shared “constitution”—the master skill novel-studio—which defines the pipeline’s state machine, the project directory layout, the batching rules, and the quality gates. All collaboration happens through files in the project workspace, with project.yaml tracking progress, so even if you write five chapters today and pick it back up next week, it can resume from where it left off.

The Iron Rule of “Mandatory Batching”

If “de-AI polishing” was what I cared about most in the video project, then in the novel project the thing I obsessed over was mandatory batching.

A long novel easily runs to dozens or hundreds of chapters. Let the model “write it all in one go” and the second half will fall off a quality cliff. So I baked in an iron rule: by default, only 5 chapters per batch. When a batch is done, it must stop, the Chief Editor sums up that batch’s results and reports back to you, and only after you confirm does the next batch begin.

This buys two things. First, it cuts the quality risk into small chunks—if a batch isn’t good, you re-run just that batch instead of starting over. Second, it fits the reality that agents “forget”: each batch ends by producing a rolling recap and a settings index, and the next batch starts by reading that compressed memory rather than wading through tens of thousands of words of raw text.

To fight the “drifts the longer it goes” problem, I also set up three consistency gates: once a name is frozen in a setting card it can’t be changed → the writer self-checks before submitting → the editor does two passes of cross-checking. Run that gauntlet, and that scar on the protagonist’s left hand isn’t going anywhere.

A Few Thoughts

Having built the video studio and then this one, I’m increasingly convinced that what multi-agent collaboration actually solves isn’t “making AI smarter”—it’s “keeping AI from tangling itself up over a long process.”

A single model’s ceiling is genuinely high, but ask it to carry a whole novel alone and it ping-pongs between the big picture and the fine details, losing one while tending the other. Split the task apart and use files as the handoff surface, and each agent only has to focus on one small thing at a time—which, counterintuitively, makes it steadier.

Of course, it can’t replace a genuinely good story. However self-consistent the settings or however smooth the pipeline, whether it moves anyone in the end still comes down to the concept you fed it at the start, and to whether you’re willing to stop when it veers off and steer it back by hand.

If you’d like to build your own novel studio, take a look at the code and try dropping it into your Claude Code or Hermes Agent.

It’s a multi-agent video creation toolkit built for Hermes Agent . Simply put, it lets you form a virtual video studio with 7 AI agents, taking over the entire workflow—from in-depth research, scriptwriting, and TTS voiceovers to Remotion animation rendering and multi-platform SEO packaging.

Why Build This Tool

As AI capabilities continue to improve, creating short videos with AI has become incredibly easy. Nowadays, we can frequently scroll through various AI-generated videos on TikTok or Bilibili. However, whether it’s the advanced Seedance 2.0 or Gemini omni, they share common issues like slow generation speeds and difficulty in control. Sometimes, to generate a satisfactory video, we have to repeatedly roll the dice, constantly picking and splicing, which consumes a vast amount of time—let alone mass-producing short videos.

While I believe AI will eventually solve these problems given the current pace of development, these pain points still exist right now. So I started wondering: could we make AI video generation slightly more controllable through a multi-agent collaborative workflow? At the very least, when we are unsatisfied with the final video output, we wouldn’t have to start from scratch but rather tweak a specific node in the workflow, saving a considerable amount of time.

Thus, this project was born. It is particularly suited for producing batches of popular science short videos. From gathering materials, writing verbatim scripts, recording or configuring TTS, editing, and animating, to packaging titles and descriptions for various video platforms—this entire process can be collaboratively completed by AI agents with diverse characteristics. You only need to provide the topic, and AI can mass-produce videos for you like an assembly line. Of course, you can do the voiceovers yourself and add your own A-roll footage to achieve even higher video quality.

7 Agents, 6 Stages

In this project, I broke down the video production workflow into the collaboration of 7 specific roles:

• Director: The general manager of the entire studio, responsible for receiving your topics, breaking down tasks, and dispatching them to other agents.
• Researcher: Responsible for in-depth research and outputting structured research data.
• Writer: Drafts the initial video script based on the research data.
• Editor: Exclusively responsible for “de-AI polishing” and finalizing the script.
• Narrator: Calls TTS tools to generate voiceovers and outputs timeline synchronization files.
• Renderer: Transforms text and audio into dynamic video frames based on Remotion.
• Packager: Generates titles, descriptions, and tags tailored for platforms like YouTube and Bilibili.

The entire pipeline flows completely automatically. You can choose different working modes: if you want to chime in at any time, you can pull them into a “group chat” and watch them discuss; if you just want to see the results, you can contact the Director one-on-one and let it “delegate” work in the background; if you need mass production, you can also manage the progress using a Kanban mode.

The Necessity of “De-AI Polishing”

Throughout the entire pipeline, what I care about the most—and spent the most effort tuning—is the Editor stage.

Current large models share a common flaw when writing articles: they love using overly enthusiastic marketing tones filled with grandiose adjectives. This feels disconnected from our daily reading experience. I personally have always preferred restrained, natural, and clear writing. If I were to read the script myself, that strong “AI flavor” would make me feel very uncomfortable.

Therefore, after the Writer produces the first draft, I forcibly introduced the Editor role. Its task is to perform “de-AI polishing”: removing pompous vocabulary, breaking long sentences into short ones, eliminating stereotypical patterns, and making the script return to the natural tone of human speech as much as possible.

A Few Thoughts

After completing this project, I have a very strong feeling: multi-agent collaboration might truly change the survival state of individual creators.

In the past, when we talked about a “one-person studio,” it often carried a sense of ascetic tragedy. But now, if you know how to orchestrate AI, you can genuinely have your own virtual employees. In Video Studio, you only need to decide on a good topic. AI will automatically run through the rest of the dirty work for you.

Technology is leveling the execution threshold at an unprecedented speed. When tools are no longer an obstacle, what ultimately widens the gap might once again return to those things in our minds that truly belong to humans: your taste, your restraint, and your unique understanding of the world.

If you are interested, feel free to check out the code and try deploying it into your Hermes Agent.

But it was precisely on an afternoon like this that a very strong thought came to me: perhaps this is already the happiest moment of my life. The thought startled even me. Maybe it was because everything before my eyes was too happy that sadness slowly rose from inside it. I thought of my parents growing old, of my child growing up, of the impossibility of staying here forever. Many years from now, when I look back, this afternoon may have become a dream I can no longer return to. In that moment I understood very clearly: happiness is brief. It is something we happen to encounter only during certain stretches of life.

For some reason, this feeling made me think of the Preface to the Orchid Pavilion . I studied Wang Xizhi’s text in school and once memorized the whole thing: late spring, the worthy gathered, young and old together; wine cups floating down the winding stream, everyone seated along its banks. The teacher explained the words, and the textbook gave us a modern Chinese translation. But to be honest, I did not really understand why Wang Xizhi became sad halfway through writing it. In such a beautiful place, drinking and composing poems with friends should have been pure joy. Why suddenly write that “whether life is long or short, all will eventually end”? Why sigh that “what once delighted us becomes, in the briefest turn, a trace of the past”? When I read those lines as a child, I thought they were the usual ancient reflections on life, a feeling very far away from me.

Only today did I suddenly understand. Wang Xizhi was not sad because the Orchid Pavilion was not beautiful. He was sad precisely because it was too beautiful. At moments of extreme happiness, people are most likely to realize how brief happiness is. The more complete the present feels, the more clearly one senses that it cannot be kept. The joy taking place in front of us has almost already begun to disappear at the very moment it occurs.

What once delighted us becomes, in the briefest turn, a trace of the past.

In the past, I only remembered this sentence. Today I finally knew what it meant.

This feeling has become more obvious lately. Part of the reason is family life itself, but part of it also has to do with AI. I have been following and learning the latest AI tools. New models, new products, new concepts; they seem to appear almost every day. Just when I begin to understand how one tool works, something more efficient and more powerful seems to replace it. After a while, there is a deep sense of being unable to keep up.

That anxiety is the feeling of never being able to control the situation. No matter how hard you try to catch up, the road ahead keeps accelerating. You do not know how much value today’s knowledge will still have tomorrow. You do not know whether the skills you now rely on to make a living will become worthless within a few years. If it were only me, perhaps it would be easier. One can always tell oneself: at worst, I start over. But when I look at my parents, my wife, and my child, that anxiety becomes much heavier. What I truly fear is whether this hard-won, ordinary happiness in front of me will be swept into some larger wave of the times.

My parents, my wife, my child, a family living peacefully together. Because these things are so concrete, I fear losing them even more. People in the past, of course, also faced impermanence. Illness, aging, separation; these have always existed. But the sense of impermanence for our generation seems to have acquired another layer. We are not only facing the impermanence of life itself. We are also facing the impermanence of social structures. The AI revolution may already be arriving, and the changes it brings may be more drastic than many earlier technological shifts. Work, education, the distribution of wealth, the organization of society, even the way ordinary people understand and participate in the world, may all change.

So a classical sadness and a modern anxiety have overlapped. The classical sadness is this: even the happiest moment will eventually pass. The modern anxiety is this: even if I want to protect the life before my eyes, I do not know how to do it. When the two are layered together, they form a state that is difficult to describe. It is a deeper helplessness. You know life was never fully controllable, and at the same time you discover that the era itself is becoming even less controllable. You want the happiness in front of you to continue, but you do not know what you should hold on to.

It was in this state that I thought again of the Preface to the Orchid Pavilion. A modern person standing on the eve of the AI revolution could, on an ordinary weekend afternoon, in a bedroom where his wife and child were sleeping, feel the emotion of a man who lived more than a thousand years ago. The times are completely different, but the emotional ground beneath them is somehow connected. At one’s happiest, one suddenly realizes that happiness cannot be preserved forever. When one most wants to protect something, one suddenly feels that one’s strength is not so great after all.

Many pieces of writing cannot be understood when we are young because life has not yet brought us to the right place. Back then, we treated them as textbook passages, as material for exams. Then one day, when life itself carries you to a similar position, you suddenly discover that those sentences were not merely written in a book. They had been waiting somewhere inside your own life all along.

Perhaps this is what literature is for. Wang Xizhi did not solve impermanence. He had no way to make the gathering at the Orchid Pavilion last forever. All he could do was write down that moment. So the gathering disappeared, but not entirely. It became words. It became an emotion that later generations could still enter. The times change, and the ways we express ourselves change as well. But the most basic things in the human heart do not seem to change so easily. A person’s cherishing of happiness, fear of loss, helplessness before time, and impulse to preserve a moment through writing can still recognize one another across more than a thousand years.

Whenever I consider why people of the past were moved to such feelings, it is as if our experiences fit together like two halves of a tally. I cannot read their words without sighing in grief, unable to fully make sense of it in my heart. I know, then, that treating life and death as the same is empty nonsense, and equating a long life with an early death is false. Those who come after us will look upon us just as we now look upon those before us. How sad!

Maybe this is what I received from the Preface to the Orchid Pavilion today. It simply let me know that the unease I feel now is not isolated and unsupported. Long ago, someone else also saw impermanence in the midst of great joy, thought of disappearance amid beautiful scenery and good company, and wrote that feeling down. More than a thousand years later, an ordinary person on a weekend afternoon before the AI revolution sat at home, listened to the quiet breathing of his wife and child, and suddenly understood him. That fact alone gave me a little certainty.

So I have listed the people who were there and recorded what they wrote. Though times and circumstances may differ, what moves us to feeling is essentially the same. Later readers, too, will surely be moved by these words.

I did not expect that, after so many years, I would draw strength from the Preface to the Orchid Pavilion. Perhaps much of the time, people cannot stop happiness from becoming a trace of the past. But we can decide what kind of trace it becomes: one that passed by in haste and was regretted afterward, or one that was truly lived and carefully remembered.

This piece of writing also gradually took shape through a conversation between me and AI. That in itself is interesting. I worry about the future AI may bring, yet I also use AI to sort through my own feelings. It is as if everything has begun to connect with AI. Even thinking about impermanence, family, literature, and the self can no longer remain completely outside it.

Its purpose is straightforward. After you enter information such as the start and end dates of employment, last year’s income, the place where the employment contract was performed, whether a written contract was signed, and the reason for departure, the tool estimates statutory severance, damages for unlawful termination, payment in lieu of notice, and the possible double-wage range for failure to sign a written employment contract.

Let me put the disclaimer up front: this is only an auxiliary estimate. It cannot replace formal legal advice or a lawyer’s judgment. In a labor dispute, the reason for termination, notice procedure, evidence, local wage standards, and the approach of the arbitration commission or court may all affect the final result. The tool is more like a first-round checkup: it gives the user a rough range, highlights key variables, and points out what should be verified next.

Why I Built It

In corporate work and labor dispute consultations, I often hear the same question:

The company wants to terminate my employment contract. Roughly how much can I get?

The question sounds simple, but it is easy to calculate incorrectly.

Many people remember only one formula: one month of pay for each year of service is N, and unlawful termination is 2N. Once the formula is applied to a real case, details appear immediately. How should years of service be rounded? Does a period of more than six months but less than one year count as one year? Is the monthly wage subject to a statutory cap? What is the local average monthly wage for employees in the previous year? Is the employer relying on no-fault termination, or on an economic layoff? Was thirty days’ prior notice given? If no written contract was signed, when does the double-wage period begin and end?

A lawyer can of course explain these points one by one, but many basic questions can first be handled by a form. Before a consultation, if the party already knows whether the issue may involve N, N+1, 2N, or a double-wage claim, the conversation becomes much more efficient.

So I wanted to build a plain tool: one that does not create anxiety, does not promise an outcome, but lays out the rules and makes the calculation process visible.

Legal Rules Are Not Solved by One Prompt

This project was largely built with vibe coding, but it also reminded me of something important: for a legal tool to be useful, the difficulty is not only in writing code. It is in translating the legal rules into structure.

For example, statutory severance under China’s Employment Contract Law seems to have a clear formula. But when implemented in software, it has to be broken down into many questions: the start and end dates of employment, whether the employee’s monthly wage exceeds the local cap, whether the situation falls under Article 46, whether payment in lieu of notice may apply, whether double wages for the absence of a written contract should be calculated separately, and so on.

If these branches are not thought through, the result will either be overly confident or overly vague.

One common problem is going too far. The tool may only be making an estimate under public rules, but it presents the result as if the user will definitely receive that amount. That is dangerous. Labor disputes depend heavily on evidence and procedure. The wording of a termination notice, a recorded conversation, or the background to a job transfer or pay cut may change the legal assessment.

The opposite problem is being too cautious. If everything is reduced to “it depends,” the user still has no idea where they stand.

I wanted the tool to sit somewhere in the middle. It should calculate what can be calculated, give clear warnings where warnings are needed, and leave space where the law requires judgment. For a suspected unlawful termination, for example, it shows a possible 2N range while reminding the user to check the termination reason, company rules, delivery procedure, and evidence chain. For an Article 40 termination, it treats thirty days’ prior notice as a factor affecting N+1. For the absence of a written contract, it estimates the possible double-wage range separately instead of crudely folding it into severance.

This is also one advantage lawyers have when participating in vibe coding: we are sensitive to uncertainty. Code tends to prefer definite answers. Law often produces risk ranges. A usable legal product has to admit that uncertainty.

Data Standards: Useful First, Then Keep Improving

The first version includes reference wage data for 2024 and covers prefecture-level cities, autonomous prefectures, regions, leagues, and some county-level units directly administered by provinces across mainland China’s provincial-level administrative regions. The difficult part is that public data is not published in a fully consistent way. Some cities provide official full-caliber or urban unit average wage figures; for others, the tool can only temporarily use regional data from the National Bureau of Statistics as a cap reference. Minimum wage standards may also have multiple tiers.

That is why I kept override fields on the page. If a user knows the latest local standard used by the arbitration commission, court, or human resources authority, they can enter it manually. For a legal tool, that is more honest than pretending the database will always be correct.

I will continue to supplement and correct the data sources. Friends familiar with local labor dispute practice are also welcome to open issues or pull requests.

A Thought for Lawyers

We used to think that a lawyer’s technological transition mainly meant learning to use legal databases, writing prompts, or asking AI to draft contracts. After building this tool, I increasingly feel that the more valuable work is not limited to “letting AI write text for us.” It also includes turning the structured parts of legal services into products.

Of course, not every legal question needs software, and not every legal judgment is suitable for automation. But issues like severance pay have relatively clear rules, limited variables, and high consultation frequency. They are well suited to a low-barrier tool.

More importantly, vibe coding lowers the cost of trying. A lawyer does not have to quit their job and spend three years learning front-end development before testing an idea. If you can explain the rules clearly, review the logic generated by AI, and point out what is wrong when the result is off, you can already start building a prototype.

As a corporate lawyer, I spend much of my day dealing with statutes, regulations, and relatives or friends who come to me with legal questions. One of the topics people ask about most often is employment law. Local leave policies in particular—how many days of marriage leave, how long maternity leave lasts, and so on—are questions almost everyone eventually runs into.

A while ago, a friend moved to a company in Shenzhen and asked me, “How many days of paternity leave does Shenzhen actually give? Everything online is a mess.” I looked around and found that he was right. There is one set of national rules, and then every province has its own local supplements. The information is scattered across human resources department websites, government gazettes, and local regulations. There was no single place where you could compare everything at a glance.

At the time I thought: it would be useful to have a website where you choose a province and immediately see all leave policies, with national rules and local special rules displayed side by side, each rule linked to its legal source.

Then another thought appeared: why don’t I build it myself?

In the past, I would have pushed that thought back down within three seconds. I did not know front-end development, could not draw a map, and had no idea how to deploy a website. But over the past year, things have changed.

When Law Meets Vibe Coding

First, a word about vibe coding. The term was proposed by Andrej Karpathy in early 2025. The basic idea is that you no longer need to write every line of code by hand. You describe what you want in natural language, and AI writes the code. What you do is less “programming” and more “directing.” You are responsible for the idea and taste; AI is responsible for execution.

When I first encountered vibe coding, I also went through a period of confusion. I watched other people use Cursor or Claude Code to spin up projects in no time. Then I tried it myself and found that it was not that simple. AI can write code, but the code often has problems: components fail to render, types break, styles go wrong, routes do not work.

Later I slowly figured something out: vibe coding does not mean “stop thinking.” It means “think in a different way.” You cannot really let go completely. You have to review the code, give precise revision instructions, and point the AI in the right direction when it gets stuck. In a sense, it is not so different from reviewing a law paper. You may not write every word from beginning to end, but you must know where the problem is and how it should be fixed.

My legal background ended up playing an unexpected role in this project.

How Legal Thinking Reshaped My Development Process

What is the core training of legal education? If I had to name one thing, it would be systematic classification and subsumption. When facing a case, the first step is not to jump to a conclusion. It is to break the facts into legal elements, examine them one by one, and then reach a conclusion.

That way of thinking mapped naturally onto the data structure for this leave policy site.

Leave policy is, at its core, a multi-layered rule system:

• First layer: the national statutory baseline. For example, 98 days of maternity leave and 3 days of marriage leave are found in national rules such as the Special Provisions on Labor Protection for Female Employees and the Population and Family Planning Law, and apply nationwide.
• Second layer: provincial supplements. Shanghai adds 30 days of maternity leave on top of the 98-day baseline, Guangdong gives 15 days of paternity leave, and some autonomous minority areas have special policies.
• Third layer: fallback rules. If there is no special local rule, the national standard applies by default.

I understood this three-layer structure through the legal relationship between general law and special law: special law prevails over general law, and where special law is silent, general law applies. That is exactly the core logic of the mergePolicy() function in the code: load the national baseline first, then merge in provincial override fields. Local values override the national baseline; missing local values fall back to the national rule.

So when the AI asked how I wanted to design the data structure, I almost immediately sketched out this YAML schema:

marriage_leave:
  days: 3
  conditions: Couples who have completed marriage registration according to law
  pay: Normal pay
  legal_basis:
    - name: Notice of the State Labor Administration and Ministry of Finance on Marriage Leave, Funeral Leave, and Travel Leave for Employees of State-Owned Enterprises
      article: Article 1

Then each province file only records what differs from the national baseline. For example, Jiangsu:

marriage_leave:
  days: 13
  legal_basis:
    - name: Jiangsu Province Population and Family Planning Regulations
      article: Article 27

Anyone in the legal world can immediately recognize this as the logic of “special law prevails over general law.” But if you had asked me a year ago to write the merge logic from scratch, I absolutely could not have done it. Now I describe the idea to AI, and within half a minute the code appears, with type checks passing.

Zod data validation follows the same pattern. Law cares about formal requirements: a contract missing an essential clause may be invalid. In this project, the equivalent is strict schema validation for data files. central.yaml must contain all seven leave categories; every leave item in a province file must include a “days” field; legal sources cannot be empty. I described these constraints to the AI in natural language, and it generated a Zod schema plus a validation script that runs before build. If the YAML format for any province is wrong, the entire CI pipeline fails.

It is a little funny to imagine what my supervisor would think if they knew I was using legal methodology to “train” AI to write code. But honestly, this kind of cross-disciplinary transfer is one of the most interesting parts of the vibe coding era. You do not have to be a formally trained software engineer, but you do need a systematic way of thinking, whether it comes from law, medicine, architecture, or music.

From Idea to Product: A Weekend Build Log

Once the idea and methodology were clear, the next step was to build.

For the tech stack, I followed one principle: choose the most mainstream tools, the ones AI knows best. This was not the time to show off. I am happy to be pragmatic here. Next.js + Tailwind CSS + shadcn/ui is a stack that appears heavily in AI training data, which means the AI is less likely to make mistakes.

Data Layer: Compiling Leave Policies for 31 Provinces

This was actually the most time-consuming part. Code can be generated with AI; content cannot.

I spent almost two full weekends checking the websites of health commissions, human resources departments, and local people’s congresses across 31 provincial-level regions, along with amendments to local population and family planning regulations. For every rule, I recorded the source document, article number, and official link. Some rules were buried very deep. A paternity leave rule in one autonomous region, for example, was hidden in a 2016 decision amending the local population and family planning regulation. To reconstruct the full rule, I had to follow the amendment back to the original text.

AI cannot really help with that, at least not yet. It may fabricate legal provisions that look plausible, but on this kind of issue a legal professional still has a bottom line: the data must be traceable.

All the cleaned data is stored under data/provinces/ using the XX-pinyin.yaml naming convention: 31 province files, plus a central.yaml file as the baseline.

Front End: Three Days of Pain with an SVG Map of China

The most painful part of the project was the map of China.

At first I thought it would be simple: find an existing ECharts map library and render the map. Then I discovered that the China map in ECharts uses GeoJSON, which is not only large but also annoying to adapt for dark mode. AI suggested using native SVG, but most China SVG maps I found online were poor quality: rough borders, and in some cases incomplete province paths.

In the end, I used a compromise. I asked AI to help generate precise SVG path data and store it as a JSON file. Each province has one path, with a viewBox, path coordinates, and the latitude and longitude of the province center. Then I wrote a React component for interaction.

One detail is worth mentioning: click areas for small provinces and municipalities. Beijing, Tianjin, and Shanghai are so small on the map that the mouse can hardly hit them. I went back and forth with the AI for several rounds before coming up with a solution: wrap an invisible circular click hotspot around the path, enlarge the radius threefold, and cover the nearby blank area. The AI did not suggest this on its own, but once I described it, it implemented the idea quickly.

The heat map colors also took a long time to tune. I defined a “leave heat score” by adding together the days of marriage leave, maternity leave, and paternity leave, then dividing the result into four bands:

• Green (≥200): provinces with relatively generous leave benefits
• Yellow (190-199): above average
• Red (180-189): somewhat below average
• Dark red (<180): places with fewer total leave days

To be honest, this “heat score” is fairly rough. I mainly wanted to give users an immediate visual impression: at a glance, they can roughly see which color regions offer more leave. If I have time later, I plan to add more weighted factors, such as childcare leave and home leave.

Province Detail Pages: Seven Leave Categories as Cards

The province detail page was inspired by the dashboard in the health app on my phone. Each leave category is an independent card. The top shows the number of days, the middle shows eligibility and wage treatment, and the bottom folds away detailed explanations on qualification and notes.

The most valuable design is the source label system. Each rule has a small label on the right:

• “National Rule” (gray): this rule comes from national-level law or regulation.
• “Local Special Rule” (blue): this is an additional policy made by the province on top of the national baseline.

Displayed side by side, the labels let users immediately tell which benefits come from the state and which are local supplements.

Deployment: GitHub Actions + GitHub Pages, Online at Zero Cost

Deployment turned out to be the easiest part of the whole project.

Next.js has a feature called Static Export. In simple terms, it pre-renders the entire site into static HTML, CSS, and JavaScript files, so no server is needed. I only had to add output: "export" in next.config.mjs, then configure GitHub Actions so that every push to the main branch automatically runs npm run build and publishes the output to GitHub Pages.

The CI pipeline is also clean:

1. Check out the code.
2. Run npm ci to install dependencies.
3. Run npm run validate-data to validate all YAML data files.
4. Run npm run typecheck for TypeScript type checking.
5. Run npm run build to build the static site.
6. Deploy to GitHub Pages.

From pushing code to seeing the site updated, everything is automatic and takes less than two minutes.

Live site: masonblog.github.io/HolidayGO-CN

Closing Thoughts: In the AI Era, Ideas Are the Scarce Resource

After finishing this project, my strongest feeling was not “AI is amazing.” It was this: in the AI era, people with ideas are scarce, and people who can actually ship those ideas are even scarcer.

Think about it. Every year in China, countless law students, lawyers, and HR workers look up leave policies. After checking the answer, they move on. How many people think, “Why don’t I build a lookup tool?” And among those who do, how many actually open a computer and start building?

AI has flattened the technical implementation gap, but it has not flattened the gap between wanting to do something and being able to persist until it is done.

I am not a programming expert. Before starting this project, I did not even know how routing works in Next.js. But now a usable product is here: data for all 31 provincial-level regions, dark mode, an interactive map, traceable sources, and fully automated CI/CD deployment. Two years ago, as someone trained in the humanities, I would not have dared to imagine this. In 2026, with spare time and AI, I did it.

So what I want to say is this: if there is a thought in your head that keeps saying, “It would be nice if something like this existed,” do not hesitate. Start now. You do not need to wait until you have “learned programming” before beginning. That era is over. You need only:

• a clear idea (your most distinctive asset, and one AI cannot take away);
• a systematic framework for thinking (from any discipline);
• the patience to polish details (AI can help write code, but only you can polish the product).

Leave the rest to AI and time.

All code for this project is open source on GitHub: masonblog/HolidayGO-CN . If you have additions or corrections to the leave policy data, PRs are welcome.

If you also come from a non-technical background and have built something of your own with AI as a “wild developer,” feel free to share your story in the comments. I would love to hear it.

This was not a hack. It was not an insider leak. Someone simply forgot to add *.map to .npmignore.

Just like that, 510,000 lines of TypeScript, 44 hidden feature flags, and a mysterious background autonomous agent called KAIROS were exposed to everyone within hours.

What Happened: An Avalanche Started by a .map File

How Did the Leak Happen?

On March 31, 2026, Anthropic published version 2.1.88 of @anthropic-ai/claude-code on npm. The update was supposed to be routine maintenance, but it came with a huge “extra”: a 59.8 MB JavaScript Source Map file with a .map suffix.

Source maps are debugging tools that map compiled or minified code back to the original TypeScript source. This internal debugging file was accidentally bundled into the public npm package.

More importantly, the .map file pointed to a ZIP archive hosted on Anthropic’s own cloud storage, containing the complete source repository. Anyone who followed the clue could download the full codebase.

Root cause: the *.map rule was missing from .npmignore, so the source map was published along with the package.

How Fast Did It Spread?

Within hours of publication, the developer community noticed the code and backed it up on GitHub. According to Layer5, related repositories quickly exceeded 41,500 forks, at one point becoming one of the fastest-growing repositories in GitHub history.

Anthropic confirmed the incident soon afterward, but said it was only a packaging mistake and that no user data or credentials had been leaked.

What Was Inside: Secrets Hidden in 512,000 Lines of Code

The source contained 1,906 TypeScript files. Developers and researchers across the AI world began digging through it like archaeologists, looking for things Anthropic had never publicly disclosed.

Secret One: KAIROS, an Always-On Autonomous AI Agent

This was one of the most discussed discoveries. A feature flag named KAIROS appeared more than 150 times in the code.

KAIROS comes from ancient Greek and means “the right moment.” Judging from the code logic, it represents a major shift in Claude Code’s product direction: from passive response to an active background autonomous daemon.

More specifically, KAIROS mode includes a sub-mechanism called autoDream. When the user is idle, Claude can automatically perform “memory consolidation” in the background, merging scattered observations, resolving logical conflicts, and turning vague impressions into concrete knowledge.

In essence, this gives AI a form of continuous learning and self-optimization. It is not only operating when you actively use it; it is running all the time.

Secret Two: BUDDY, a Cyber Tamagotchi

Yes, you read that correctly. Hidden in the code was a complete digital pet system called BUDDY.

It included:

• 18 species to choose from;
• rarity tiers: common (60%) → rare → epic → legendary (1%);
• shiny variants, similar to shiny Pokémon;
• unique stats, including DEBUGGING, PATIENCE, CHAOS, WISDOM, and SNARK.

According to code comments, BUDDY was originally planned as an April Fools’ Easter egg, with a quiet teaser on April 1 and a formal release in May. Instead, the March 31 leak spoiled it early. The timing was almost too ironic.

Secret Three: Stealth Mode, a Mask for Anthropic Employees

The code also revealed a feature called “Stealth Mode,” designed to hide Anthropic employees’ contributions to open-source projects.

In simple terms, when Anthropic engineers used Claude Code to submit code to open-source communities, this mode would conceal their Anthropic employee identity from the outside. The discovery triggered discussion and controversy in the open-source community.

Secret Four: Anti-Distillation, “Poison” for Competitors

The ANTI_DISTILLATION_CC feature flag revealed a more aggressive strategy: injecting fake tool definitions into API requests.

The goal was to pollute the training data of competitors that monitor API traffic and try to learn or copy Claude’s capabilities through knowledge distillation. The code also summarized the AI’s reasoning process and attached encrypted signatures, so eavesdroppers could obtain only the summary rather than the full chain-of-thought output.

Security Warning: Attackers Moving in During the Chaos

The accidental leak itself had limited direct harm, but the security risks that followed were serious.

Axios npm Poisoning: A Precise Strike by North Korean Hackers

On the same day, March 31, attackers compromised the npm account of the popular HTTP library Axios and published two malicious versions, 1.14.1 and 0.30.4. These versions introduced a cross-platform remote access trojan (RAT) through a hidden dependency named plain-crypto-js.

The malicious versions remained live for about two to three hours before npm removed them.

Google’s threat intelligence team attributed the attack to UNC1069, a financially motivated threat actor with North Korean links. The malware used was WAVESHAPER.V2.

High-risk time window: if you installed or updated Claude Code through npm between 00:21 UTC and 03:29 UTC on March 31, your machine may have been infected with malicious code.

Fake Repositories on GitHub

In addition to npm poisoning, threat actors also spread malicious repositories on GitHub disguised as “Claude Code source mirrors.” These repositories tricked users into running a Rust-based dropper, which then deployed Vidar Stealer and GhostSocks proxy malware.

Emergency Self-Check Steps

If you are a developer, run these checks immediately:

1. Check your project’s lockfile (package-lock.json or yarn.lock) for Axios versions 1.14.1 or 0.30.4.
2. Check whether the plain-crypto-js dependency is present.
3. If either is found, treat the host as fully compromised immediately: rotate all keys and credentials, and consider reinstalling the operating system.

Impact and Reflection

Impact on Anthropic

The direct loss for Anthropic was competitive intelligence exposure. Unreleased strategic features such as KAIROS and the anti-distillation mechanism were seen by competitors and researchers ahead of time.

From another angle, however, Anthropic’s response—acknowledging the issue quickly and explaining the cause plainly—helped preserve some degree of public trust.

A Warning for Supply Chain Security

This incident is a classic case study in software supply chain security:

• On the development side: one forgotten packaging rule (.npmignore) can cause a serious information leak.
• On the attacker side: hackers can exploit a high-profile event with astonishing speed, even on the same day.
• On the user side: during a major incident, any download outside official channels is extremely dangerous.

It reminds every team maintaining an open-source project that release process audits and automated checks are just as important as code quality itself.

Conclusion

The Claude Code source leak was one of the most dramatic AI incidents of 2026. In an unexpected way, it gave the public a glimpse into the engineering logic and product ambitions behind a top-tier AI tool, from KAIROS, which points toward a new human-machine interaction paradigm, to BUDDY, a delightfully geeky digital pet.

Yet alongside this accidental transparency came the very real threat of supply chain attacks. The incident once again reminds us that in an era where software depends heavily on the open-source ecosystem, security is never only about code. It is also about release processes, dependency management, and emergency response.

Further reading:

• Details of the Claude Code source leak - VentureBeat
• Anthropic confirms npm packaging mistake - The Hacker News
• Axios npm poisoning and RAT incident - Decode the Future
• Fake Claude Code downloads spreading malware - The Register
• Full analysis of KAIROS and hidden features - WaveSpeed AI
• Supply chain security lessons - Coder Blog

This is the transcript of episode 05 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcast . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

On February 26, 2026, the renowned jurist Gao Mingxuan, often called a grand master of Chinese criminal law, died of illness at the age of ninety-eight.

As one of the first generation of legal scholars trained after the founding of the People’s Republic of China, Gao’s life was almost a living history of Chinese criminal law. He was the only scholar who participated throughout the drafting of the PRC’s first Criminal Law. He was China’s first doctoral supervisor in criminal law. He wrote the first legal monograph published after reform and opening up, and co-edited the first nationally unified criminal law textbook.

It is no exaggeration to say that behind every criminal judgment issued in China today, there is a theoretical foundation that Gao helped lay.

But the life of any discipline lies in reflection and renewal. Law is no exception. As we remember Gao’s historical contributions, Chinese criminal law is also standing at a point of deep transformation. In recent years, scholars have fought a long and consequential debate over two systems for understanding crime: the “four-element” theory and the “three-step” theory. On the surface, this is an argument among scholars in their studies. At its core, it concerns something much larger: how the state’s power to punish should be exercised, and how the rights of ordinary citizens should be protected.

Gao Mingxuan: A Living History of Chinese Criminal Law

To understand Gao Mingxuan’s contribution, we need to begin in May 1928 in Xiandie, a small fishing village in Yuhuan County, Zhejiang. Gao was born there into a family with both scholarly and legal traditions. During the Nationalist period, his father served as a judge in the Hangzhou District Court and later as a judge of the Zhejiang High Court. His uncle and elder brother also worked in law.

In that atmosphere, Gao developed a strong interest in law from childhood. When he was nine, the full-scale War of Resistance against Japan broke out. His father refused to serve the Japanese occupiers, resigned angrily, and returned home. During that period, he strictly supervised Gao’s studies.

After junior high school, Gao entered the prestigious Wenzhou High School. The school’s principal, the educator Jin Rongxuan, held a campus essay competition on the topic “How to Build a New Wenzhou High School.” The young Gao won first prize with his strong writing, making his name known across the school.

When Gao graduated from high school in 1947, his talent was already obvious. He was admitted to Fudan University, Wuhan University, and Zhejiang University at the same time. He chose Zhejiang University’s law department. Later, because of historical changes and university restructuring, he transferred to the law department of Peking University, and in 1951 entered the criminal law graduate program at Renmin University of China.

At Renmin, he met the Soviet legal experts who would influence him for life, including Bestrova and Damaheng, and received systematic training in criminal law. In 1953, Gao graduated with top marks and stayed on as a teacher. That was the beginning of more than seventy years in legal education.

The Long Road to Legislation: From Draft 22 to Draft 38

On the eve of the founding of the PRC, the central leadership decided, for political reasons, to completely abolish the old Nationalist legal system known as the “Six Codes” and build a socialist legal system from scratch. The decision broke with the old order, but it also meant that in the early years of the new state, punishment of crime often took place in a vacuum where there was no comprehensive criminal code to rely on. Courts handled cases largely through policy or through scattered special regulations such as rules on counterrevolutionary crimes and corruption.

In September 1954, the PRC’s first Constitution was promulgated, and the creation of a unified Criminal Law finally went onto the agenda. In October, the General Office of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress formed a criminal law drafting group under the direct leadership of the Party Secretariat. Gao, who had been teaching for only a year, was selected for the team because of his academic strength. He was only twenty-six, the youngest member of the group.

He could not have known that the work would take twenty-five years.

The drafting process was a long and exhausting journey. The team worked day and night, collected cases widely, and studied domestic and foreign legislation. By June 1957, it had produced Draft 22. In October 1963, it completed Draft 33. That draft had even been reviewed and approved by the Politburo Standing Committee, and final enactment seemed close.

Then came the Cultural Revolution, and China’s legal construction fell into more than a decade of stagnation. Drafting was halted. Renmin University itself stopped operating for a time. Gao was sent down for labor and was later assigned to Beijing Medical College, where he remained for eight years. Through those long, bitter years, he preserved the materials and documents from the criminal law drafting process, waiting for the return of legal order.

At last, in October 1978, as the Third Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee approached, the state put forward the principle that laws must be available, obeyed, strictly enforced, and violations punished. Criminal law legislation entered its third launch. The drafting group quickly restarted work based on Draft 33. After repeated revisions and intense debate, the historic Draft 38 took shape.

On July 1, 1979, the Second Session of the Fifth National People’s Congress adopted the Criminal Law of the People’s Republic of China. Gao was overwhelmed with emotion. He later recalled that this ended the PRC’s thirty-year history without a criminal code, and that criminal judgments without cited legal provisions had finally become a thing of the past.

From a twenty-six-year-old young scholar to a middle-aged man with gray at his temples, Gao poured the best years of his life into those thirty-eight drafts.

To preserve that precious historical memory, Gao published The Gestation and Birth of the Criminal Law in 1981. The book recorded in detail the disputes and revisions from Draft 22 to Draft 38. It was also China’s first legal academic monograph after reform and opening up, and it sold out in less than a month.

The Establishment of the Four-Element Theory

Once China had a criminal code, the next question was practical and fundamental: what logic should courts use to decide whether a person has committed a crime? This brings us to the most central and contested theory in criminal law: the theory of the constitution of crime.

As mentioned above, the early PRC abolished the old legal order and built legal education along a path of learning from the Soviet Union. In the early 1950s, Soviet experts such as Bestrova came to Chinese law schools. What they brought with them was the four-element theory, then dominant in Soviet criminal law.

To help people quickly grasp the logic of conviction during that formative period, the criminal law teaching and research section at Renmin University’s law department collectively wrote Lectures on the General Part of Criminal Law in 1957. The book introduced the four-element theory and marked its landing in China.

By 1982, in order to meet the needs of the restored college entrance examination and the rebuilding of legal institutions, the Ministry of Justice organized leading scholars to write a unified national textbook. Gao Mingxuan and Professor Ma Kechang of Wuhan University, then known together as “Gao in the North and Ma in the South,” co-edited the first national textbook on criminal law. With a total circulation of nearly two million copies, it firmly established the four-element theory as the basic framework of Chinese criminal law.

So what is the four-element theory? It holds that for conduct to constitute a crime, four puzzle pieces must all be present at the same time:

First, the object of the crime: what social relation the act infringes. A homicide violates another person’s right to life; theft violates property rights.

Second, the objective aspect of the crime: the external manifestation of the criminal activity. What did the actor do? What result occurred? Was there causation between act and result?

Third, the subject of the crime: whether the person who committed the act has reached the legal age of criminal responsibility and has normal mental capacity.

Fourth, the subjective aspect of the crime: the actor’s mental state. Was the act intentional or negligent?

Under this theory, the four elements stand or fall together. In deciding a case, the judge effectively draws a cross in the mind and fills in each element. Only when all four are complete and fit together tightly can a crime be established.

This way of thinking, emphasizing the unity of subjective and objective elements, is intuitive, clear, and easy to learn. At a time when many judicial workers had limited legal training, the four-element theory worked like a sharp and efficient knife. It helped Chinese courts sort out facts and punish crime, and it made a real historical contribution.

From Four Elements to Three Steps: A Century-Level Debate

After reform and opening up began in 1978, China’s social structure, economic model, and intellectual life all changed dramatically. The planned economy gradually gave way to a market economy. Social conflicts and forms of crime became more complex, including new kinds of economic and financial crime.

In that context, the 1979 Criminal Law, with only 130 crimes, began to look inadequate. Between 1981 and 1996, the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress issued more than twenty separate criminal laws and accessory criminal provisions to patch the gaps. In 1997, the state decided to comprehensively revise the Criminal Law. Gao participated throughout that revision as a legislative expert.

The 1997 Criminal Law greatly expanded the list of crimes and adjusted the structure of punishment. More importantly, it expressly established three basic principles: legality, equality before criminal law, and proportionality between crime, responsibility, and punishment. Gao spent his life defending the principle of legality: no crime by analogy, and no crime without an express legal provision. The final establishment of that principle marked the true modernization of Chinese criminal law and gave Chinese criminal law a stronger basis for engagement with the world.

Improved legislation created fertile ground for theory. In the 1990s, as Chinese legal education opened up, many younger scholars, including Chen Xingliang, Zhou Guangquan, and Zhang Mingkai, studied in Germany, Japan, and other major civil law jurisdictions. They translated and introduced a large body of German and Japanese criminal law literature.

These scholars brought back a very different logic of conviction: the German-derived three-step theory. Under this theory, a judge’s reasoning should not be a flat puzzle, as in the four-element model. It should be more like a funnel with three strict filters.

The three steps are:

First, fulfillment of the statutory elements: this is a factual judgment. The judge asks only whether the actor’s conduct and result match the description in the criminal statute. If you stab someone to death with a knife, your conduct satisfies the statutory description of intentional homicide.

Second, unlawfulness: this is an objective legal value judgment. Even if the conduct fits the statutory description, does the overall legal order provide a justification? If there is a justification, such as self-defense or necessity, the conduct is legally permitted and therefore not unlawful.

Third, culpability: this asks whether the actor can be personally blamed. If the conduct fits the statute and lacks justification, the judge must still ask whether moral and legal blame can be attached to the actor. A person with severe mental illness who lacks capacity, or a person acting under coercion, may not be culpable and therefore may not be criminally liable.

The introduction of the three-step theory landed in Chinese criminal law like a depth charge. Scholars such as Chen Xingliang argued openly for a transformation of criminal law knowledge: a move away from the Soviet model and toward the German-Japanese layered system. They criticized the four-element model for failing to distinguish clearly between “unlawfulness” and “responsibility.” In their view, without a progressive filtering structure, judges facing difficult cases are left to make life-and-death decisions through an inexpressible kind of intuition.

Traditional scholars struck back. They argued that the four-element theory had been refined through decades of Chinese judicial practice and had developed deep institutional fit. Starting over would confuse grassroots judicial workers. They also argued that it is absurd to blame the four-element theory alone for weak human rights protection. Human rights depend on fair criminal procedure and concrete institutional implementation, not merely on conceptual games.

The debate reached a peak in the 2009 National Judicial Examination. Some of that year’s criminal law questions clearly leaned toward three-step reasoning in classifying cases. The legal academy was shaken. Some scholars even joked that it was a “war of the gods” in Chinese criminal law.

Four Elements vs. Three Steps: A Deeper Look at the Logic

At this point, a reader may ask: are the four-element and three-step theories not both just ways of breaking down the conditions of crime? One has four baskets, the other has three filters. What is the real difference? Why are so many leading younger scholars so convinced that the three-step model is logically tighter?

To answer that technical question, we need to look at the logic more closely.

In simple cases, any theory looks smooth. To test whether a theory is rigorous, we need to pressure it with hard borderline cases. That is exactly how Chen Xingliang and others exposed what they saw as the logical weaknesses of the four-element model.

Scenario One: The Problem of Self-Defense

Suppose you are walking down the street and an attacker tries to kill you with a knife. To save yourself, you seize the knife and kill him. In law, this is self-defense and does not constitute a crime.

Under the four-element theory, the case feels awkward. If the judge says you are not guilty, which element is missing? Objectively, someone died. You are a normal adult. Subjectively, you intended to kill him in order to survive. So what is absent? Traditional textbooks can only explain this by saying that social harmfulness is excluded, then build a separate house next to the four-element structure called “grounds excluding crime” and place self-defense there. Logically, the structure is broken.

Under the three-step theory, the reasoning is much smoother. Your act satisfies the statutory elements of homicide. Factually, the killing occurred. But at the second step, unlawfulness, the law asks whether there is a justification. Because you were defending yourself against an unlawful attack, the legal order encourages and permits your act. Unlawfulness is blocked. Because there is no unlawfulness, there is no crime. The loop closes cleanly.

Scenario Two: Instigation and Juvenile Offenders

Another classic example shows the precision of the three-step model. Suppose an adult, Zhang San, instigates a thirteen-year-old, Li Si, to commit burglary.

Under the four-element theory, a person must satisfy the object, objective aspect, subject, and subjective aspect of a crime all at once. But Li Si is thirteen and has not reached the legal age of criminal responsibility, so he lacks the proper criminal subject element. He therefore does not constitute a crime.

Here comes the problem: if Li Si has not committed a crime, to whom is Zhang San’s status as instigator attached? To convict Zhang San, traditional theory often has to bypass joint crime and introduce the concept of an indirect principal offender, treating Li Si as Zhang San’s tool without independent agency. That patch feels cramped. The deeper reason is that in the four-element theory, all elements are mixed together to explain social harmfulness. Unlawfulness and responsibility are not separated, which creates a classification problem.

The three-step theory solves this neatly because it clearly separates unlawfulness from culpability.

Li Si committed burglary in the factual sense and satisfied the first step: the statutory elements. He had no lawful justification such as self-defense, so the second step, unlawfulness, is also satisfied. In legal evaluation, what Li Si did was unlawful and wrong.

For accomplice liability, the three-step theory holds that it is enough for the instigated person to commit an unlawful act. The instigated person does not have to be punishable in the end. Since Li Si’s conduct has crossed the first two steps and is unlawful, Zhang San, as the instigator, can naturally be held liable.

Only at the third step does the judge examine Li Si’s personal responsibility. Because Li Si is only thirteen and lacks mature capacity, the law does not blame him subjectively. Li Si is not punished, but Zhang San, as an adult with full responsibility, must bear criminal liability for instigation.

This is the point. The three-step theory separates “the act is wrong” from “this person can be blamed.” The act is wrong, so the instigator is punished. The child who performed the act may be excused, so the child is not punished. That layered movement from objective unlawfulness to subjective culpability is why many criminal law scholars argue for the three-step model.

A Historical Monument That Cannot Be Erased

Still, when discussing theoretical change, we must not fall into historical nihilism. Whatever criticism the four-element theory faces today, the historical monument built by Gao Mingxuan and the first generation of Chinese criminal law scholars cannot be erased by anyone or any era.

In the early PRC, when legal resources were desperately scarce and legal nihilism was widespread, Gao’s generation built the first shelter for China’s criminal justice system. The four-element theory has logical flaws, but over decades it guided millions of cases through its simplicity and usability. It contributed greatly to maintaining social order and building legal authority.

Gao’s lifetime of work also won him the highest recognition at home and abroad. In April 2015, for his outstanding contribution to criminal law, he received the Cesare Beccaria Award from the International Society of Social Defence, an honor often called the Nobel Prize of criminal law. Gao became the first Asian scholar to receive it. In 2019, on the eve of the seventieth anniversary of the PRC, the state awarded him the national honorary title of People’s Educator, making him the only representative from the legal academy to hold that honor so far.

Academic progress is possible because the shoulders of earlier generations are broad enough. What is most admirable about Gao is not only his body of work, but also his openness as a scholar and his humane spirit as an educator.

Since becoming China’s first doctoral supervisor in criminal law in 1984, he trained more than sixty doctoral students. Many leading scholars who later criticized the four-element theory and called for a transformation of legal knowledge, including Chen Xingliang, were Gao’s own students.

Facing fundamental challenges from younger scholars, Gao never used authority to suppress them. He once advised young teachers: when teaching undergraduates, focus on the basics and avoid controversial issues at first; when teaching graduate students, explain both sides of the debate fully; when teaching doctoral students, discuss the most advanced questions and encourage them to think for themselves. He lived by the idea that students need not be inferior to the teacher. That tolerance for dissent and encouragement of innovation is one of the forces that has allowed Chinese legal scholarship to keep renewing itself.

Looking Ahead

From the historical moment of Gao Mingxuan’s death, the future direction of Chinese criminal law is already quite clear.

First, the theoretical system will move from closure toward broad compatibility. On reform of the theory of crime, scholars have proposed several paths: reordering the four elements, adding or subtracting elements from the existing model, or starting over with a full three-step structure. The future Chinese theory is unlikely to be a pure copy of the German-Japanese model, and it will not simply return to the old Soviet path. More likely, it will draw deeply on Chinese judicial practice, integrate the existing elements under the statutory-element analysis, and build a new layered model that combines logical rigor with Chinese institutional reality: fulfillment of elements, unlawfulness, and criminal punishability.

Gao himself advised younger scholars to value international cooperation and exchange in criminal law: learn from others’ strengths, but also have the courage to explain China’s own experience.

Second, the philosophy of punishment will complete its shift from social defense alone toward human rights protection. As legal civilization advances, criminal law should not only be the sword that punishes crime. It should also be a constitutional charter that limits state power and protects citizens. By introducing the strict logical filters of layered theory, future judgments can better prevent abuse of punishment and ensure that every decision affecting liberty and life can withstand serious logical and ethical scrutiny.

Finally, legislation and amendment will become more refined in the face of new challenges. As Gao pointed out in his later years, China’s criminal law should continue to be revised through criminal law amendments, steadily improving the coherence of the system and the technique of legislation. Whether dealing with complex cybercrime or legal gaps created by artificial intelligence, theory must provide more precise tools.

Gao Mingxuan has left us, taking with him an age of passion, hardship, and pioneering labor. But the first stone of the rule of law that he helped lay, and the scientific spirit with which he encouraged reform and pursued truth, will continue to guide later generations of Chinese legal professionals.

The best way to remember Gao is not to seal his doctrines in a shrine. It is to inherit his courage, keep pushing the transformation and improvement of Chinese rule of law, and build China’s legal structure more firmly with both rigorous logic and deep human concern.

Key Figures

• Gao Mingxuan: Chinese criminal-law scholar who helped draft the PRC’s first Criminal Law and long defended the four-element theory.
• Ma Kechang, Chen Xingliang, and Zhang Mingkai: Important Chinese criminal-law scholars associated with the discussion of the three-tier theory.
• Cesare Beccaria: A key source of modern criminal-law thought and the Enlightenment tradition of limiting state penal power.

Key Cases and Concepts

• The 1979 Criminal Law of the People’s Republic of China: The PRC’s first criminal code and the institutional background of this episode.
• Four-element theory of crime: The traditional framework judging crime through object, objective aspect, subject, and subjective aspect.
• Three-tier theory of crime: A layered analysis of Tatbestandsmäßigkeit, unlawfulness, and culpability.
• Legality and human-rights protection: The deeper issue of boundaries on state penal power.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 09｜The End of the Chinese Legal Tradition: How Late-Qing Reforms Reshaped the Rule of Law : Adds historical context for the development of modern Chinese criminal law.

This is the transcript of Episode 04 of my podcast Reasoned Talk . You can listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode itself is in Chinese.

Three Ways of Remembering Defeat

Japan’s prime minister, Sanae Takaichi, enjoys strong domestic support, while her hard-right statements have once again sent Sino-Japanese relations toward a low point. This is not entirely new. Far-right forces were never completely uprooted after the Second World War, and Japan has long struggled to reach a consensus on war and history. Irreconcilable currents coexist within the country, while the government’s position shifts with public opinion. As a result, relations with China and South Korea periodically become tense.

In The Long Defeat, Japanese American sociologist Akiko Hashimoto identifies three narratives through which postwar Japan remembers the war.

The first is the narrative of the “heroic fallen.” Favored by the right, it portrays soldiers killed in the war as heroes whose sacrifice made Japan’s future possible. Responsibility recedes: war criminals become heroes and aggression is repackaged as national defense. Politicians’ visits to Yasukuni Shrine and attempts to sanitize textbooks belong to this narrative.

The second is the narrative of the “innocent victim,” the dominant form of postwar memory. It emphasizes the suffering of Japanese civilians—the bombing of Tokyo and Osaka and the atomic destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This memory is grounded in real catastrophe, but it can evade Japan’s aggression and the suffering it inflicted abroad. Japan did not experience attacks on its home islands until the closing phase of the war; that cannot simply be equated with the destruction endured by invaded countries from the outset.

The third is the “perpetrator” narrative. It faces Japan’s identity as an aggressor, acknowledges its war crimes, and argues that the country must expose its past, break with militarism, and seek reconciliation. Japanese society, in this account, must confront the Nanjing Massacre, the “comfort women” system, Unit 731, and other brutal truths.

Because people remember the past differently, Japan has never agreed on what defeat meant. Official discourse has usually favored a victim narrative. Postwar pacifism has often centered on preventing another war, rather than remorse for a war Japan initiated. Family silence as the wartime generation aged strengthened this tendency, while the more recent rise of right-wing nationalism has narrowed the space for discussing responsibility.

Yet the perpetrator narrative never disappeared. Courageous individuals kept it alive. One of the most representative was historian Saburō Ienaga. For 32 years, he fought the state in court to defend historical truth and force Japanese society to face the crimes of war.

Saburō Ienaga and an “Inconvenient” Textbook

Ienaga was a prominent postwar historian and educator who taught at the institution now known as the University of Tsukuba. He became famous, however, not simply for scholarship but for a high-school history textbook. Outraged by government efforts to alter its account, he began the litigation collectively known as the Ienaga textbook lawsuits. From 1965 to 1997, he sued the Japanese government three times over textbook screening.

The controversy grew out of Japan’s postwar textbook system. Private publishers prepared textbooks, but the Ministry of Education screened them before schools could use them. The system, introduced during the Allied occupation, was meant to prevent a return to state-directed ultranationalist education and to protect quality. In practice, it also allowed officials to filter historical interpretations they disliked, especially accounts of wartime aggression.

Ienaga had worked on textbooks since 1947. His New Japanese History was already in classrooms in the 1950s, but official pressure mounted during the 1960s. Its descriptions of the Nanjing Massacre, Unit 731, the comfort women, and other sensitive subjects repeatedly angered examiners. The third edition was rejected in 1957; the fifth was initially rejected in 1963 and passed only conditionally after revision. Officials issued more than 300 comments, many complaining that the account was too graphic or placed excessive emphasis on Japanese atrocities.

Ienaga concluded that screening had become ideological control and violated academic freedom. In June 1965, then nearly fifty, he sued the state and the Ministry of Education, arguing that the system amounted to prior censorship forbidden by Article 21 of the Constitution.

The First Lawsuit: A Constitutional System, but Potentially Illegal Decisions

In the first suit, Ienaga sought both a declaration that the screening system was unconstitutional and compensation for damage caused by the review of his fifth edition. He argued that many comments intervened in his interpretation rather than correcting errors. Examiners objected to calling Japan’s war in China an “invasion” and challenged specific figures for victims of the Nanjing Massacre. When he rejected revisions he considered false, the book failed screening until substantially cut.

The Tokyo District Court delivered judgment in July 1974. It found eight comments unsupported and unlawful and awarded Ienaga a symbolic 100,000 yen. For the first time, a court had explicitly found particular textbook interventions illegal. But it refused to invalidate the system itself, holding that limited intervention could be justified to preserve neutrality and accuracy.

In 1986, the Tokyo High Court overturned even the damages award. On 16 March 1993, the Supreme Court also held the system constitutional. National standards, it reasoned, protected educational equality; moreover, a rejected textbook could still be published as an ordinary book, so screening classroom eligibility was not the same as prohibiting publication.

At the same time, the Court articulated an important limit: if an examiner’s understanding of historical fact or scholarship was clearly mistaken, the decision could be an unlawful abuse of discretion. It found no such error in the disputed items and rejected Ienaga’s appeal. After 28 years, he had failed to overturn the system, but the judgment supplied a legal standard that would matter later.

The Second Lawsuit: The Brief Triumph of the Sugimoto Judgment

Ienaga filed his second lawsuit in June 1967, while the first was pending. When revising the sixth edition, he tried to restore wording previously changed under official pressure. The Ministry rejected the book again. Unlike the first claim for damages, this administrative suit asked the court to cancel the rejection itself.

The case produced a sensational victory. On 17 July 1970, the Tokyo District Court, presided over by Judge Sugimoto, held that the rejection amounted to advance scrutiny of the author’s ideas and violated Article 21’s ban on censorship. It also found improper control of education under the Basic Act on Education and revoked the Ministry’s decision.

Ienaga called it a magnificent judgment beyond anything he had expected. But the government appealed. In 1975, the Tokyo High Court avoided the constitutional question while still finding an abuse of authority and leaving the revocation intact.

On 8 April 1982, the Supreme Court did not squarely decide who was right. It remanded the case because curriculum standards had changed and the old book could no longer return to use even if approved. In 1989, the High Court dismissed the claim for lack of a continuing legal interest. Formally, Ienaga lost.

The Sugimoto judgment nevertheless mattered. It was the first postwar judgment explicitly to declare textbook screening unconstitutional. Its emphasis on the people’s right to education, students’ right to learn, and teachers’ freedom to select materials influenced public debate and showed that an individual could force the state to defend its conduct in open court.

The Third Lawsuit: Four Illegal Decisions and 400,000 Yen

By the 1980s, disputes over war memory had intensified. Right-wing groups promoted sanitized accounts, while China and South Korea watched Japanese textbooks more closely. In 1982, Japanese media reported that the Ministry had required “invasion” to be replaced with the milder “advance” and had challenged accounts of the Nanjing Massacre. The reports triggered major diplomatic protests. Later research showed that the famous word change had not actually occurred in that year’s screening, though similar guidance had existed before. The controversy nevertheless led the government to promise that screening would take relations with Asian neighbors into account.

Now in his seventies, Ienaga returned to court. Editions submitted in 1980 and 1983 again received demands concerning Japan’s wars, the Nanjing Massacre, Unit 731, and the Battle of Okinawa. In January 1984, he filed his third suit, seeking compensation for unlawful screening and focusing on eight representative interventions.

On 3 October 1989, the Tokyo District Court upheld the system but found one comment unlawful and awarded 100,000 yen. On 20 October 1993, the Tokyo High Court expanded the number of unlawful comments to three and damages to 300,000 yen. The additional findings concerned the Nanjing Massacre and rape committed by Japanese troops there. The demands to alter those passages, the court held, lacked proper grounds.

The Supreme Court delivered the final judgment on 29 August 1997. It again upheld the system and retained the “clear error” standard, but tightened the boundary of official discretion: correction could be required when a manuscript had a serious defect that made it unsuitable as a textbook, not merely because an examiner preferred different wording. The Court found a fourth illegal intervention—the order to remove a reference to Unit 731’s human experiments—and raised damages to 400,000 yen.

The 32-year struggle was over. Ienaga had not abolished screening, but he forced the courts and public to confront its abuses. The final judgment confirmed unlawful efforts to suppress the Nanjing Massacre, Japanese military sexual violence, and Unit 731. One person had fought the machinery of state for more than three decades and won a small but precious measure of legal recognition for historical truth.

What the Three Lawsuits Left Behind

The lawsuits were more than legal disputes. They were a prolonged battle over historical memory and the meaning of education.

First, they awakened public attention. Screening had largely taken place behind bureaucratic doors. Litigation put disputed words and official reasoning into the public record. Parents, teachers, and students learned that the history printed in schoolbooks was shaped by political choices.

Second, the litigation helped constrain the screening system. After the Sugimoto judgment, officials had reason to avoid overtly ideological interventions. The 1982 controversy produced the “neighboring countries clause,” instructing screeners to show consideration for Japan’s Asian neighbors when treating modern history. The 1997 judgment further clarified that officials could not demand changes merely because another wording was possible.

Third, Ienaga inspired a wider community committed to historical truth. Teachers, lawyers, scholars, and civic groups supported him. Younger educators inherited his concerns, and later plaintiffs brought related challenges. His willingness to confront power became an expression of what many called “Japan’s conscience.”

There was tragedy too. Ienaga died in 2002 without seeing the government fully accept responsibility for aggression. In court he partly won and partly lost; in the broader contest over memory, he remained in the minority. The textbook problem did not disappear. In the early twenty-first century, right-wing groups again promoted books that minimized the comfort women system and the Nanjing Massacre. Ienaga reportedly described his record late in life as “three lawsuits, three defeats,” because he had not transformed mainstream attitudes at their roots.

Epilogue: Accepting Defeat Is the Beginning of Moving Forward

Ienaga’s story tells us first that an individual is not powerless against the distortion of history. He spent more than thirty years proving that even someone in a minority can speak and sometimes move an entire society. Historical truth survives only because people continue to state it publicly.

Second, a mature country must face its past. Japan’s postwar constitutional pacifism prevented another war and deserves to be valued. But peace means more than refusing to fight again; it also requires acknowledging the war one once began. The perpetrator narrative advanced by Ienaga and his supporters was not an attempt to denigrate Japan. A nation willing to admit wrongdoing is more likely to earn lasting trust.

The lesson extends beyond Japan. How a people understands defeat shapes its future. Denial may preserve pride for a moment but plants dangers for later. Facing failure and admitting wrongdoing is painful, yet it can lay the foundation for peace.

A history textbook is never merely a few pages of paper. It represents how a nation remembers its past and teaches the next generation. More than eighty years after the end of the Second World War, old wounds still ache. There is no shame in accepting defeat. The shame lies in refusing to acknowledge wrongdoing and allowing tragedy the chance to return.

Ienaga’s lonely courage offered Japan and the world an example. Only by facing history can a country truly move toward the future. By remembering honestly and reflecting sincerely, we honor the dead and protect those who come after us.

Key Figures

• Saburō Ienaga: Japanese historian who fought the textbook-screening system and the Japanese government for 32 years.
• Ryōkichi Sugimoto: The Tokyo District Court judge who issued the important judgment in the second lawsuit.
• Japan’s Ministry of Education: The agency responsible for textbook screening and the central defendant in the lawsuits.

Key Cases and Concepts

• The Ienaga textbook lawsuits: Three rounds of administrative and state-compensation litigation over textbook screening, academic freedom, and war memory.
• Textbook screening: A system through which the state influences historical narrative by reviewing teaching materials.
• Academic and educational freedom: Constitutional questions about whether research, writing, and teaching can resist state censorship.
• War responsibility: How Japanese society confronts the history of aggression, the Nanjing Massacre, and Unit 731.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 09｜The End of the Chinese Legal Tradition: How Late-Qing Reforms Reshaped the Rule of Law : Also observes law and historical memory through institutional transformation.

The language was unmistakably Trumpian. He called Warsh a “central casting” choice and predicted that the former Fed governor would become a “great, maybe even the greatest” Fed chair in history.

The nomination marks the end of the Jerome Powell era. It also suggests that the century-old Federal Reserve is about to enter a period of sharp regime change. But this is not a calm handoff surrounded by flowers and applause. At the very moment the nomination was announced, the Fed’s headquarters on Constitution Avenue was sitting at the center of an unprecedented legal storm. The Justice Department’s criminal investigation into Powell was still underway, and allegations of cost overruns in the building renovation hung over Fed officials like a blade.

Kevin Warsh, once a Wall Street golden boy, the youngest governor in Federal Reserve history, and the son-in-law of the Estee Lauder family, now returns from Stanford’s academic world to the arena of power. Trump expects from him two things at once: lower interest rates and deregulation.

The world is left asking: how will a former inflation hawk steer the flagship of the global financial system in an age of populism, geopolitical shocks, and heavy debt? Is his rise the beginning of the Fed’s return to tradition, or the prelude to the final loss of its independence?

The Power Game Behind the Fed Chair

To understand how brutal this fight has become, we first need to look at the real weight of the Fed chair. In the modern global economy, the chair of the Federal Reserve is often considered the second most powerful person after the president of the United States. In some dimensions, the chair’s influence over markets is even greater.

The Fed is not merely America’s central bank. It is the heart of the dollar system. The federal funds rate it sets is the anchor for global asset pricing. The size of its balance sheet determines how loose or tight dollar liquidity is around the world. From Tokyo’s stock market to London’s bond desks, from Brazilian exporters to Shanghai property developers, every tremor in the global economy is connected to decisions made inside the Eccles Building in Washington.

The Fed does not only shape the U.S. economy. Through the dollar system, it moves global equities, bonds, currencies, and credit.

The power structure of the office is complicated by design. The Fed chair is nominated by the president and confirmed by the Senate for a four-year term. But that is only half the story. The chair must also be one of the seven governors of the Federal Reserve Board, and governors serve fourteen-year terms. This dual-track design was meant to protect the Fed’s independence and prevent a president from controlling monetary policy by rapidly replacing governors. In the political reality of 2026, however, this design has become a trigger for constitutional conflict.

Powell and Trump: from “my pick” to “enemy of the country”

The feud between Jerome Powell and Donald Trump reads like a modern political thriller. It did not begin today. It had years of painful buildup.

In 2017, Trump broke with decades of custom by declining to reappoint Janet Yellen. Instead, he chose Powell, a Republican lawyer rather than an economics PhD, hoping he would keep rates low and help power the economy during Trump’s term. But Powell’s technocratic instincts soon infuriated him. Faced with the risk of overheating, Powell insisted on gradual rate hikes. To Trump, that looked like betrayal.

During Trump’s first term, he shattered the old taboo against presidents publicly commenting on monetary policy. He attacked Powell on Twitter, calling him stubborn and accusing him of lacking “guts,” “sense,” and “vision.” The attacks reached a peak during the 2024 campaign, when Trump asked on social media: “Who is our bigger enemy, Jay Powell or Chairman Xi?”

President Biden’s 2022 renomination of Powell temporarily gave the Fed a layer of political protection. But after Trump won the 2024 election and returned to the White House, a showdown became inevitable. By 2025, with inflation recurring and Trump eager for stimulus, the White House had run out of patience. Trump declared that the Fed chair should be someone who could “talk” to the president, not a bureaucrat hiding behind data.

Renovation-gate: a staged palace coup

Earlier attacks were mostly verbal. The “renovation-gate” crisis of late 2025 and early 2026 moved the fight into a much harsher legal phase.

The issue was not monetary policy. It was the renovation of the Fed’s headquarters.

The Eccles Building and the nearby Martin Building had aged visibly since their construction in the 1930s. The Fed launched a major renovation project to remove asbestos, update outdated mechanical systems, and improve security. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been an administrative matter. The Trump administration saw something else: a weapon to use against Powell.

Trump personally visited the site and confronted Powell in front of cameras. The awkward scene was recorded: Trump pointed at the construction site and challenged Powell on cost overruns, while Powell shook his head and tried to explain that the numbers in the president’s hand confused the completed Martin Building with the still-underway Eccles project.

The situation escalated quickly. The Justice Department opened a criminal investigation into Powell, accusing him of concealing the true state of the renovation project in congressional testimony. Washington’s legal and financial communities were stunned. Powell responded with a sharply worded video statement, calling the investigation “unprecedented” and saying that the threat of criminal charges was the consequence of the Fed setting rates based on its best judgment rather than presidential preference.

It was against this near-constitutional crisis that the search for a successor accelerated. Trump needed someone who could replace Powell, reassure markets, carry out his will, and still survive Senate scrutiny.

Why Kevin Warsh?

The shortlist included Kevin Warsh, National Economic Council director Kevin Hassett, Fed governor Christopher Waller, and BlackRock executive Rick Rieder. The press jokingly called it “the battle of the two Kevins.”

Warsh won in the end. That was no accident. He offered Trump the best balance across several demands.

First, Warsh is handsome, wealthy, polished, and exactly the kind of “central casting” figure Trump likes in senior office. More importantly, he is married into the Estee Lauder family. His father-in-law, Ronald Lauder, has been Trump’s friend and donor for decades. In Trump’s world, that kind of personal connection often matters more than a doctorate.

Second, compared with Hassett, Warsh has deeper roots on Wall Street. He was a Morgan Stanley partner and played a meaningful role during the 2008 financial crisis. Markets tend to see him as a “safe” choice: politically compliant, perhaps, but not someone likely to crash the dollar.

Third, Warsh used to be a famous inflation hawk, which seems to clash with Trump’s demand for low rates. In recent years, however, he has successfully recast his economic philosophy around a new argument: use supply-side reform and deregulation to suppress inflation, thereby creating room for rate cuts. That logic fits Trump’s political wish perfectly: low rates and high growth at the same time.

Kevin Warsh: From Wall Street to the Center of Power

The elite path: Stanford, Harvard, and Morgan Stanley

Warsh’s biography is almost a textbook version of the American elite track. Born on April 13, 1970, into a wealthy family in upstate New York, he studied public policy at Stanford, focusing on economics and statistics, and then earned a law degree from Harvard. That West Coast plus Ivy League background gave him the ability to move across academia, law, and business.

In 1995, at just twenty-five, Warsh joined Morgan Stanley’s mergers and acquisitions division. In that top-tier Wall Street arena, he quickly showed a sharp business instinct. Over seven years as an investment banker, he worked on major deals across manufacturing, technology, and financial services.

That experience did more than make him rich. It taught him how markets work at a granular level: how banks operate, how credit flows, and what happens when liquidity dries up. That set him apart from many central bankers who had spent their entire lives on university campuses.

Warsh has moved through investment banking, the White House, the Fed, and academia. That is one reason he is seen as a market-friendly nominee.

The White House and the youngest Fed governor

In 2002, Warsh passed through the revolving door into the George W. Bush administration as a special assistant at the National Economic Council. There, he became one of Bush’s key advisers on capital markets and learned how to operate where politics and economics meet.

In 2006, Bush nominated him to the Federal Reserve Board. At thirty-five, Warsh became the youngest governor in the Fed’s history.

Many observers wondered whether this young lawyer could handle such a technical institution. The Board was usually the home of older economics professors. History soon gave Warsh a chance to prove himself, and in the harshest possible way.

Trial by fire: the 2008 financial crisis

Just two years after Warsh joined the Fed, the subprime crisis erupted and the global financial system came close to collapse. In that moment, Fed chair Ben Bernanke discovered that the young former banker beside him had something many academic officials lacked: a direct sense of Wall Street fear and a deep network of contacts.

Warsh became a key link between Bernanke and Wall Street CEOs. In March 2008, he was directly involved in the emergency negotiations for JPMorgan’s acquisition of Bear Stearns, trying to stop systemic risk from spreading before the weekend ended.

In September 2008, during the fateful weekend that decided Lehman Brothers’ future, Warsh sat in the New York Fed’s war room as the Fed’s eyes and ears. He lived through the late-night meetings that would shape the fate of countless people. He had to explain to Bernanke why a complex derivative could bring down a bank, while also communicating the Fed’s intentions to panicked markets.

Warsh showed unusual calm for his age. He supported the Fed’s first round of quantitative easing, seeing it as an emergency measure when markets had stopped functioning: break the glass and pull out the fire extinguisher.

Breaking with quantitative easing

Once the emergency phase passed, however, Warsh’s honeymoon with Bernanke ended. When the Fed launched QE2 in 2010, his position changed sharply.

He published an op-ed in The Wall Street Journal and raised objections inside the Fed. He worried that prolonged unconventional monetary policy would bring serious side effects:

1. Misallocation of capital: cheap money would flow into speculation rather than productive investment.
2. Loss of fiscal discipline: central bank purchases of government debt would encourage unchecked borrowing.
3. Inflation risk: he warned that the main risk still lay with inflation and doubted the Fed’s confidence in its ability to manage expectations.

In 2011, Warsh resigned from the Fed Board before the end of his term. The move seemed aloof at the time, but it later helped him build a reputation among conservative economists as a principled hawk. That reputation became an important piece of political capital in his nomination.

A marriage into power

Any account of Warsh’s rise has to mention his marriage. In 2002, he married Jane Lauder, heiress to the Estee Lauder cosmetics empire and now global brand president of Clinique. Her personal fortune is measured in billions.

The marriage brought Warsh into a powerful social and political network. Jane’s father, Ronald Lauder, is not only president of the World Jewish Congress but also a longtime friend and major donor to Donald Trump. Some reports have even said that Trump’s strange idea of buying Greenland was originally inspired by Ronald Lauder.

In Trump’s view of appointments, personal trust often outranks professional credentials. As biographer Tim O’Brien has put it, connections to powerful or famous people matter deeply to Trump. Ronald Lauder’s quiet advocacy surely helped Warsh in this contest. To Trump, Warsh is not merely a technocrat. He belongs, in some sense, to the circle.

Warsh’s Economics: A Blend of Old and New

Warsh is not a traditional Keynesian, nor is he a pure monetarist. His thinking mixes Wall Street pragmatism, old-style fiscal conservatism, and real enthusiasm for new technology. From his recent comments, we can sketch the outline of what might be called Warshism.

Point one: the Fed needs regime change

Warsh’s most radical view is his criticism of the Fed itself. He believes the institution has suffered from “institutional drift”: it has repeatedly misjudged inflation and expanded into areas such as climate change and social equity that he thinks lie outside its proper role.

His phrase “regime change” refers not only to personnel but also to a reset of the policy framework. He has criticized Powell’s “data dependence” as driving by looking in the rearview mirror. In his view, the Fed should be more forward-looking, using theory and market signals to anticipate the economy rather than waiting for lagging employment data. He also thinks the Fed should focus more narrowly on price stability, pay less attention to short-term employment swings, and avoid deliberately creating unemployment just to bring down inflation.

Point two: inflation is a choice, and AI is the cure

Unlike mainstream economists who place much of the blame for inflation on supply chains or geopolitics, Warsh insists that “inflation is a policy choice.” Its roots, in his view, are excessive money creation by the Fed and excessive spending by the government.

To reconcile that view with Trump’s demand for rate cuts, Warsh introduces a new variable: artificial intelligence. He is extremely bullish on the productivity revolution AI may bring, seeing it as a powerful disinflationary force.

His logic is simple. AI will sharply raise productivity and reduce the cost of goods and services. Even if monetary policy is relatively loose, a supply-side boom could keep inflation down. This gives him a theoretical basis for supporting lower rates without triggering immediate inflation panic.

In Warsh’s story, AI is a key variable: productivity growth is expected to offset inflationary pressure.

Point three: ally of crypto, enemy of CBDCs

Warsh’s view of digital assets is sharply divided, which has made him popular in parts of the crypto community.

He has said clearly that Bitcoin does not make him uncomfortable. He sees it as an important asset that can provide signals to policymakers and even serve as a useful check on the dollar system. At the same time, he strongly opposes a retail central bank digital currency, calling it a financial panopticon that would allow excessive government surveillance and crowd out private innovation. He prefers regulated private stablecoins as the path for digitizing the dollar, rather than direct government issuance.

Point four: shadow banking and deregulation

Despite his Wall Street background, Warsh has been critical of too-big-to-fail banking. He has argued for stronger market discipline so banks bear the cost of their own risks rather than relying on government bailouts.

In the current political environment, however, he appears more inclined to loosen constraints on traditional banks, such as the capital requirements under the Basel III endgame, while watching the disorderly growth of shadow banking and private credit. His deeper argument is that excessive bank regulation may simply push risk into less transparent parts of the financial system. That is the logic behind his deregulatory instinct.

The World Economy in the Warsh Era

With Warsh’s nomination now settled, global attention turns to what comes next. If he is confirmed by the Senate and takes over the Fed in May, or perhaps earlier, what will the world economy face?

A new monetary mix: tighter assets, looser rates

Warsh may try a bold policy combination: quantitative tightening plus rate cuts.

He has long criticized the Fed’s seven-trillion-dollar balance sheet as a source of market distortion. He may accelerate balance sheet reduction and drain excess liquidity. In exchange, the inflation room created by shrinking the balance sheet could be used to satisfy Trump’s demand for rate cuts.

This strategy attempts to balance hawks, through balance sheet tightening, and doves, through lower rates. But the operation is extremely difficult. If the balance sheet shrinks too fast, the repo market could freeze, as it did in September 2019. If rates fall too quickly, inflation could reignite.

QT plus rate cuts appears to satisfy both sides, but in practice it requires precise control over liquidity and inflation expectations.

The Warsh paradox for the dollar

Trump has long complained that a strong dollar hurts exports. Yet Warsh’s appointment may push the dollar higher in the short run.

Markets believe that even if Warsh is politically obedient, he still carries a hawkish instinct. If the U.S. economy outperforms Europe and China under the combined stimulus of AI and deregulation, capital may continue flowing back into America. A strong dollar would keep squeezing emerging markets and increase their debt-servicing pressure.

But if Trump intervenes directly in the exchange rate, Warsh may have to coordinate with the Treasury through verbal intervention or even joint action. That would be a major test of his independence.

Powell as shadow chair

One huge uncertainty remains: will Jerome Powell leave? His term as chair ends in May 2026, but his term as a governor runs until January 2028. If anger over the Justice Department investigation leads Powell to remain on the Board, the Fed could enter an unprecedented period of dual power.

There is a historical echo. In 1948, Marriner Eccles stayed on the Board after President Truman removed him as chair, and later helped push through the famous Fed-Treasury Accord, which established the Fed’s independence. Powell, if he remains, could become a de facto opposition leader inside the FOMC, using his influence and vote to check Warsh’s more radical policies. That would make Fed decision-making more gridlocked and markets more uncertain.

A chain reaction among global central banks

European central bankers have already voiced support for Powell and stressed the importance of central bank independence. Facing a more politicized Fed, Christine Lagarde and Andrew Bailey may be forced to run more independent monetary policies to protect their economies from U.S. spillovers, including imported inflation.

At the same time, Warsh’s sympathy for trade protectionism may accelerate financial decoupling between China and the United States. If the Fed cooperates with trade-war goals and exchange-rate policy, China may speed up renminbi internationalization and asset diversification to reduce reliance on the dollar system.

Dancing on a Wire

Kevin Warsh’s nomination is more than a personnel change. It marks the fading of the central bank era we learned about in textbooks, one built around technical neutrality and political independence. Warsh represents a new spirit of the age: deep entanglement between markets and politics, and a strange fusion of elite networks with populist demands.

He will be dancing on a wire. On one side is the president in the Oval Office demanding lower rates, faster. On the other is the trillion-dollar bond market, always ready to punish policy mistakes. Beneath him is a world economy being reshaped by the AI revolution, debt pressure, and geopolitical fragmentation.

If he succeeds, he may become, as Trump says, a great chair who restores American economic dynamism and proves that supply-side reform can defeat inflation. If he fails, the Fed’s century of credibility could be damaged in his hands, and the world economy may have to face a chaotic age without a monetary anchor.

For Kevin Warsh, the real test has only just begun.

Many tutorials recommend running it on a Mac Mini or a Linux server, but running it on Windows is perfectly fine too.

In this post, I will walk you through installing ClawdBot on Windows, configuring it to use Google’s Gemini API (currently one of the best AI model options, with a free quota), and connecting it to Telegram, so you can chat with your AI assistant anywhere.

🛠️ Preparation

Before starting, make sure you have the following:

1. A computer running Windows 11.
2. A Google Gemini API key: you can get one for free from Google AI Studio .
3. A Telegram account: you will use it to create your bot.

Step 1: Install WSL2 (Windows Subsystem for Linux)

Key point: ClawdBot cannot run natively in Windows PowerShell or CMD. It needs a Linux environment. Fortunately, Windows already provides a very good tool for this: WSL2.

1. Open the Windows Start menu, find PowerShell, right-click it, and choose Run as administrator.

2. Enter the following command and press Enter:

   wsl --install
   

3. Restart your computer.

4. After rebooting, open the Microsoft Store, search for “Ubuntu,” and download and install Ubuntu 24.04.1 LTS.

5. Open Ubuntu. It will ask you to create a username and password. Tip: when entering the password, nothing will appear on the screen. This is normal. Type it and press Enter.

Once you are inside the Ubuntu terminal window, we can continue.

Step 2: Install Node.js the Right Way

ClawdBot needs a relatively recent version of Node.js (v22+). The version bundled with Ubuntu is usually too old, so we will use NVM (Node Version Manager) to install the latest version.

Run the following commands in the Ubuntu terminal you just opened:

1. Download and install NVM:

   wget -qO- https://raw.githubusercontent.com/nvm-sh/nvm/v0.39.7/install.sh | bash
   

2. Reload environment variables so the system recognizes NVM:

   source ~/.bashrc
   

3. Install the latest Node.js:

   nvm install --lts
   

4. Verify the installation:

   node -v
   npm -v
   

If both commands print version numbers, the installation succeeded.

Step 3: Install and Configure ClawdBot

Now comes the easiest part. ClawdBot provides a one-line installation script. Run this in your Ubuntu terminal:

curl -fsSL https://clawd.bot/install.sh | bash

The script will automatically download the required files and install ClawdBot globally inside your virtual Linux system.

After installation, if you see the following screen, it means ClawdBot has been installed successfully:

After installation, we need to do a quick setup.

1. Start the setup wizard with:

   clawdbot onboard
   

2. Follow the prompts:

   • Understand this is risky: choose Yes.
   • Onboarding mode: choose QuickStart.
   • Model provider: choose as needed; here we choose Google Gemini.
   • API key: paste the Google AI key you created earlier.
   • Default model: choose as needed. I recommend gemini-2.0-flash (fast and low-cost) or gemini-2.0-pro (smarter).
   • Select channel: choose as needed. I recommend Telegram.

Step 4: Configure the Telegram Bot

After choosing Telegram, ClawdBot will ask you for a Bot Token. Open Telegram on your phone or computer and search for @BotFather .

Send /newbot to BotFather. It will ask you to give your bot a display name, such as “My Jarvis,” and a username, such as my_private_clawd_bot. BotFather will then give you an API token that looks like 123456:ABC-DEF.... Paste this token back into the Ubuntu terminal window.

Continue configuring ClawdBot. Skills and Hooks can be skipped for now. For the monitoring method (how to hatch your bot), choose according to your needs. I recommend monitoring it directly in the command-line TUI.

Once the above steps are complete, your ClawdBot is officially running.

Step 5: Pair Your Device

For security reasons, your bot will not respond to strangers by default. You need to pair it with your Telegram account.

1. Make sure ClawdBot is running in the terminal. Open the bot you just created in Telegram and tap Start (or send /start).
2. The bot will reply with a pairing code.
3. Go back to your Ubuntu terminal. You should see a prompt asking for approval.
4. Follow the on-screen instructions and enter the approval command with the pairing code.

🎉 Done! Your bot is online and ready.

Step 6: How to Use It

Now you can chat with your bot directly in Telegram. Try prompts like:

• “Summarize this article for me:” followed by a link.
• “Remind me to turn off the oven in 20 minutes.” It will message you proactively when the time comes.
• “What’s the weather in Tokyo right now?”

Keeping It Running in the Background

Because this program runs on your own computer, the bot will go offline if you close the Ubuntu window or shut down the machine. To keep it running in the background while using Windows, you can:

1. Simply minimize the Ubuntu terminal window instead of closing it.
2. Or learn to use tools such as tmux or screen inside Ubuntu to keep the session alive.

Common Troubleshooting

• Error: “Command not found”: make sure you are entering commands in the Ubuntu (WSL) terminal, not Windows PowerShell.
• The bot does not reply: check the logs in the terminal. If you see Gemini API errors, your key may be invalid, or you may have hit rate limits due to heavy usage. In that case, you may need to enable pay-as-you-go billing in Google Cloud.

Enjoy your new AI companion. Unlike ChatGPT, it lives on your hard drive, understands your context, and can contact you proactively when it thinks you need to know something.

This is the transcript of episode 03 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

Timing note: This episode was released on July 4, 2025. The body preserves the state of the litigation and the analysis at the time of publication. For later developments in the merits of the birthright-citizenship dispute, see the transcript of episode 06 .

The Supreme Court’s Procedural Ruling and the Challenge to Birthright Citizenship

On June 27, 2025, the U.S. Supreme Court issued an important ruling in Trump v. CASA, Inc. It did not decide whether President Trump’s order restricting birthright citizenship was constitutional. Instead, it limited the scope of nationwide injunctions issued by federal district courts. For the Trump administration, it was a major procedural victory.

Birthright citizenship is the principle that a person born in the United States and subject to its jurisdiction is, as a rule, a citizen from birth. Trump has long opposed the current understanding of that principle. He argues that the children of undocumented immigrants should not automatically become citizens merely because they are born on U.S. soil, and that the rule encourages “birth tourism” and the use of childbirth to obtain future immigration benefits for a family.

On January 20, 2025—the first day of his second term—Trump signed the executive order “Protecting the Meaning and Value of American Citizenship.” It directed federal agencies not to recognize citizenship for two categories of people born in the United States: first, those whose mothers were unlawfully present and whose fathers were neither U.S. citizens nor lawful permanent residents at the time of birth; second, those whose mothers were lawfully but temporarily present and whose fathers likewise were neither citizens nor lawful permanent residents.

The order immediately provoked challenges across the country. Attorneys general from twenty-two states, immigrant-rights organizations, and individual plaintiffs filed suit in federal court. Judges in Maryland, Massachusetts, Washington, and elsewhere issued injunctions preventing the government from enforcing the order while litigation continued. They concluded that the policy was likely inconsistent with the Citizenship Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.

The administration asked the Supreme Court to intervene, but it adopted a carefully designed strategy. It did not ask the Court to decide the order’s constitutionality. Instead, it argued that lower courts lacked authority to provide relief to everyone who was not a party to the cases before them. A federal injunction, in other words, should extend no further than necessary to resolve the concrete dispute.

The Court heard argument on nationwide injunctions in May 2025 and ultimately ruled for the administration by six votes to three. The majority concluded that injunctions protecting everyone in the country likely exceeded the traditional equitable authority of federal courts. Lower courts could issue relief only as broadly as necessary to provide the actual plaintiffs with “complete relief.” The Supreme Court returned the cases for reconsideration under that standard and delayed the effect of its ruling for thirty days.

Writing for the majority, Justice Amy Coney Barrett warned that “imperial” judicial power could disrupt the separation of powers. The government’s obligation to obey the law did not mean that a court possessed unlimited authority to supervise the government in every case. Courts must resolve concrete disputes, she argued, and cannot exceed their own power in the name of correcting executive illegality.

Justice Sonia Sotomayor wrote a forceful dissent for the liberal justices. In her view, the President had challenged a right expressly protected by the Constitution, while the majority focused narrowly on remedial authority and avoided the order’s apparent unconstitutionality. When a policy changes citizenship rules nationwide, she argued, nationwide relief may be both necessary and proper; otherwise, the same constitutional right could vary according to geography and a person’s status in litigation.

The ruling did not mean that the executive order could automatically take full effect in the remaining states, much less that birthright citizenship had ended there. Once the cases returned to the lower courts, the permissible scope of the injunctions would depend on what “complete relief” required for state, individual, and organizational plaintiffs, as well as on the development of class actions. What is clear is that the administration won on procedure while leaving behind enormous constitutional uncertainty.

Trump described the ruling as a “giant win for the Constitution, the separation of powers, and the rule of law.” Supporters said it corrected the practice of a single lower-court judge freezing a national policy and prevented unelected judges from too easily frustrating an elected president. Critics answered that the decision might allow the executive branch to implement a policy in fragments while its constitutionality remained unresolved, making judicial review slower and less coherent.

The legal battle over birthright citizenship was far from over. The Supreme Court had removed one procedural obstacle without answering the basic question: could a president, through an executive order, change an interpretation of the Fourteenth Amendment that had endured for more than a century?

The Fourteenth Amendment and Birthright Citizenship

To understand the dispute, we must return to the history of the Fourteenth Amendment. The Civil War ended in 1865 and slavery was abolished, but Southern states soon enacted “Black Codes” that continued to deny basic rights to Black Americans. Radical Republicans in Congress recognized that only a constitutional guarantee of citizenship and equality could prevent states from rebuilding a racial caste system through legislation.

The Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments are collectively known as the Reconstruction Amendments. The Thirteenth abolished slavery. The Fourteenth addressed citizenship, due process, and equal protection. The Fifteenth prohibited denying the vote on the basis of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

The Fourteenth Amendment encountered fierce resistance. President Andrew Johnson opposed Congress’s Reconstruction program, and every former Confederate state except Tennessee initially rejected the amendment. Congress passed the Reconstruction Acts in 1867, imposing federal military administration as part of the process of rebuilding Southern governments. In 1868, enough states ratified the Fourteenth Amendment for it to become part of the Constitution.

Its Citizenship Clause provides:

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.

For the first time, the Constitution expressly defined national citizenship. In Dred Scott v. Sandford (1857), the Supreme Court had declared that people of African descent and their descendants could not be U.S. citizens. The Fourteenth Amendment repudiated that racist decision and guaranteed citizenship to formerly enslaved people and to others born in the United States who came within the Clause.

The words “subject to the jurisdiction thereof” preserve a narrow set of traditional exceptions. The U.S.-born children of foreign diplomats are not generally citizens because their parents possess diplomatic immunity. The same principle excludes children born to an occupying enemy force. At the time of Reconstruction, Native Americans who remained within separate tribal political relations were also excluded. Congress later conferred citizenship broadly on Native Americans through the Indian Citizenship Act of 1924.

Apart from those exceptional categories, the Fourteenth Amendment does not impose a general restriction based on a parent’s race or nationality. The Civil Rights Act of 1866 had already made birth and jurisdiction central to national citizenship. The congressional debates over the Amendment also considered the U.S.-born children of foreigners without excluding ordinary immigrant families.

The Fourteenth Amendment had consequences far beyond citizenship. It constitutionalized equal protection and authorized Congress to enforce its guarantees. The federal government acquired an affirmative role in protecting civil rights, and the relationship between national and state power was transformed.

For birthright citizenship specifically, the principle established after 1868 gradually became a foundation of America’s immigrant society. Whether parents came from Europe, Asia, or Latin America, a child born in the United States and subject to its jurisdiction began from the same legal position. Immigrant families did not have to pass uncertainty over national membership from one generation to the next.

The debate never disappeared completely. Critics argued that the rule could be exploited through “birth tourism” and that the Reconstruction Congress did not confront undocumented immigration in its modern form. Supporters replied that the text, the inherited common-law rule, and longstanding judicial practice did not exclude the U.S.-born children of ordinary undocumented immigrants. Against that historical background, the attempt to change the system by executive order produced an unusually intense constitutional dispute.

The Principle Established in Wong Kim Ark

After the Fourteenth Amendment, courts defined the reach of birthright citizenship through a series of cases. The most important was United States v. Wong Kim Ark (1898).

Wong Kim Ark was born in San Francisco in 1873 to Chinese immigrant parents. By the time of his case, the Chinese Exclusion Acts sharply restricted Chinese immigration and naturalization. Wong traveled to China and, on his return to the United States in 1895, was denied entry. The government argued that because his parents were subjects of the Qing emperor, Wong did not acquire U.S. nationality. Wong answered that he had been born in the United States, subject to its laws, and could not be excluded from the Fourteenth Amendment because of his parents’ nationality.

The Supreme Court ruled for Wong by six votes to two. The majority held that the United States had inherited the English common-law principle of jus soli: a person born in the country and subject to its law was generally a citizen from birth. Wong’s parents could not themselves become naturalized U.S. citizens, but they were domiciled in the United States, subject to American law, and were neither diplomats nor members of an occupying enemy force. Wong therefore fell squarely within the Citizenship Clause.

The decision clarified the Amendment’s reach. It protected not only the U.S.-born children of Chinese immigrants, but the children of immigrants from any other country. Unless one of the narrow exceptions such as diplomatic immunity or enemy occupation applied, citizenship could not be denied because of a parent’s place of origin.

The decision was a watershed. It secured constitutional citizenship for Chinese Americans and other Asian Americans who faced intense discrimination, and it confirmed the status of millions of later immigrant descendants. Some state courts had already recognized the citizenship of Chinese Americans born in the United States, but Wong Kim Ark supplied an authoritative federal constitutional rule.

Other cases helped define the boundaries of the Amendment. Elk v. Wilkins (1884) involved a Native American born into a tribal political community. The Court held that he had not been born completely subject to U.S. political jurisdiction and did not automatically become a citizen merely by later leaving his tribe. Congress ultimately addressed that historical exclusion through the Indian Citizenship Act.

Plyler v. Doe (1982) did not decide citizenship. It concerned access to public education for the children of undocumented immigrants. The Court held that states could not deny those children a public education because the Equal Protection Clause protects every “person” within a state’s jurisdiction. At a minimum, the case confirmed that undocumented immigrants and their children remain subject to, and protected by, U.S. law.

Since Wong Kim Ark, the mainstream legal understanding has been that a person born in the United States becomes a citizen unless one of a few exceptional categories applies. Because that consensus endured for more than a century, the administration’s attempt to change it through executive action caused such an upheaval.

Jus Soli and Jus Sanguinis

At bottom, the controversy reflects a collision between two principles of nationality: jus soli and jus sanguinis.

Jus soli, the law of the soil, grants nationality according to place of birth. Jus sanguinis, the law of blood, determines nationality through a parent’s citizenship or descent. U.S. law inherited the English common-law rule of birth within the territory, and the Fourteenth Amendment constitutionalized that tradition.

Most countries combine the two principles in different proportions. The United States relies heavily on place of birth but recognizes exceptions for diplomats and enemy occupation. Countries that historically emphasized descent have gradually introduced ways for children of immigrants born and raised there to acquire nationality.

Jus soli tends to give people born in the same territory an equal legal starting point and makes nationality depend on an objective event. Jus sanguinis emphasizes the state’s connection to ancestry, culture, or parental status, but can also leave people who spend their entire lives in a country with incomplete rights from birth.

Trump’s order required at least one parent to be a U.S. citizen or lawful permanent resident before the federal government would recognize citizenship for the covered categories of U.S.-born children. It therefore represented a marked shift toward jus sanguinis. The administration’s legal theory focused on the phrase “subject to the jurisdiction thereof” and on language in Wong Kim Ark describing the parents’ permanent domicile. It argued that citizenship should require a more durable political connection between the family and the United States.

Many constitutional scholars responded that the Fourteenth Amendment contains no language requiring “permanent residence,” and that Wong Kim Ark did not confine citizenship to the children of citizens or green-card holders. Wong’s parents were legally ineligible for naturalization, yet the Court still recognized him as a citizen from birth. That result suggests that a parent’s ability to become a citizen and a child’s citizenship by birth are distinct questions.

The Constitutional Consequences after Nationwide Injunctions

The Supreme Court’s June 27 decision avoided the merits but changed the rules of judicial relief. By restricting a district court’s ability to stop federal policy through a nationwide injunction, it strengthened the executive branch, to some degree, relative to the lower federal judiciary.

In recent years, immigration policies under Trump and executive actions under earlier administrations alike had been blocked by nationwide injunctions. Supporters of the remedy said it prevented unlawful policies from causing irreparable harm throughout the country and made judicial review an effective check on the executive. Critics argued that it gave a single judge excessive power, encouraged litigants to select a favorable court, and drew the judiciary too deeply into administration.

In the short term, the decision gave the Trump administration time and tactical leverage. It also risked regional or party-specific differences in relief: the same executive order might occupy different legal positions for different plaintiffs and in different places, weakening the uniformity normally expected of federal policy.

Most importantly, procedure could not permanently avoid the merits. When the episode was released, the birthright-citizenship cases were still moving through the lower courts. It was widely expected that the Supreme Court would eventually have to interpret “subject to the jurisdiction thereof” directly. Upholding the executive order would rewrite an understanding that had endured for more than a century. Striking it down would reaffirm the established tradition of birthright citizenship.

Litigants would also adapt. Class actions, coalitions of states, and broad relief tailored to specific affected groups would become more important when a single universal injunction was no longer readily available. Congress might also revisit the remedial power of lower courts.

Whatever the outcome, the ruling marked a new stage in the struggle between courts and the executive. Federal judges would find it harder to freeze presidential policy nationwide through one lawsuit, while policies burdened by serious constitutional doubt might take effect in a fragmented and complicated form before final judgment.

In American democracy, constitutional principles are continually tested through the pull of politics and adjudication. Birthright citizenship is a central legacy of the Fourteenth Amendment and a statement about how the nation defines civic equality and membership. Every attempt to reinterpret it tests the promise in the Declaration of Independence that all people are created equal.

Key Figures

• Donald Trump: Tried to challenge birthright citizenship through an executive order.
• Wong Kim Ark and Wong Si Ping: The family behind United States v. Wong Kim Ark, whose citizenship dispute led the Supreme Court to confirm birthright citizenship.
• Horace Gray: The justice who wrote the majority opinion in Wong Kim Ark.
• John Roberts: Spoke for the Supreme Court majority on the nationwide-injunction issue.

Key Cases and Concepts

• United States v. Wong Kim Ark: The 1898 landmark decision confirming citizenship for people born in the United States and subject to its jurisdiction.
• The Fourteenth Amendment: The constitutional textual basis for birthright citizenship.
• Jus soli and jus sanguinis: Citizenship by place of birth and citizenship by descent.
• Nationwide injunction: A remedy by which a federal district court blocks a government policy across the country.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 06｜U.S. Birthright Citizenship: Total Victory or Temporary Truce? : Follows the final judgment and remaining risks in the birthright-citizenship dispute.

This is the transcript of episode 02 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

The Revenge of Xu Yuanqing

In the late seventh century, during the reign of Wu Zetian, a controversial act of revenge took place. The central figure was Xu Yuanqing, a resident of Xiagui County in Tongzhou, around today’s Weinan in Shaanxi. His father, Xu Shuang, had once been a local official. Years earlier, he had been put to death by the county commandant Zhao Shiyun. The historical record does not explain in detail why Xu Shuang was executed.

Xu Yuanqing was overwhelmed by grief and anger. What made the loss harder to bear was that Zhao Shiyun not only escaped punishment but continued to rise, eventually serving at court as a censor. The apparent failure of local justice convinced Xu that ordinary legal channels would never vindicate his father. He began to plan revenge.

To approach his enemy, Xu concealed his identity and took menial work at a government relay station. Relay stations housed officials and provided fresh horses on long journeys; they were something like state-run guesthouses in twentieth-century China. Years later, Zhao Shiyun—by then a censor—stopped at the station while traveling on official business. Xu seized the opportunity and killed him.

Xu did not flee. He tied his own hands and surrendered to the authorities. The scene calls to mind the knight-errant of martial legend: his great vengeance complete, he calmly presents his neck for execution.

Law and Judicial Institutions under the Tang

Killing a court official was a grave crime. Under the Tang Code, Xu faced execution. The period from Emperor Gaozong through Wu Zetian and Emperor Zhongzong rested on a highly developed legal order. The Tang Code is among the earliest Chinese codes to survive in full. It began to take shape during the Zhenguan era and was formally promulgated during Gaozong’s Yonghui era. Its more than five hundred provisions were arranged in twelve sections, moving systematically from general principles of punishment to particular offenses.

The Code identified the “Ten Abominations”: plotting rebellion, plotting great sedition, plotting treason, depraved rebellion, depravity, great irreverence, lack of filial piety, discord, unrighteousness, and internal disorder. These offenses attacked the political, familial, and hierarchical order, and generally could not benefit from the privileges and forms of commutation otherwise available under Tang law. Killing an imperial censor was treated as “unrighteousness,” an offense against the hierarchy itself.

At the local level, particularly in prefectures and counties, judicial and administrative authority were usually combined. The county magistrate governed the county and judged its cases. He resolved civil disputes, heard criminal matters, and managed ordinary administration. When a crime occurred, he often served at once as investigator and judge, personally gathering evidence and questioning suspects.

The Tang Code regulated interrogation in detail. Officials were taught to use the “Five Hearings,” observing a suspect’s words, expression, breathing, responses, and gaze. When evidence was insufficient, an official could seek authorization from a superior to use judicial torture. Even that power was regulated: a suspect could be beaten no more than three times, with intervals of at least twenty days. If the suspect still refused to confess after three rounds, the accuser might instead be questioned under torture as a safeguard against false accusation. The practice reveals the brutality of ancient justice, but its procedural limits also show an effort to discover the truth and prevent wrongful conviction.

The Tang also had a hierarchy of appeals. A person dissatisfied with a county judgment could petition the prefecture, and then the central government. A particularly striking institution was the dengwen drum, hung outside the court so that people with grievances could beat it and demand official attention. The Tang Code required guards to report such petitions promptly and punished officials who refused to receive them. The mechanism resembled an ancient petition system designed to bring local injustice before higher authority. False accusation and abusive litigation were punishable, but the legal design nevertheless offered a path from the county all the way to the center.

The principal central judicial bodies were known collectively as the Three Judicial Offices: the Court of Judicial Review, the Ministry of Punishments, and the Censorate. The Court of Judicial Review was the highest tribunal for major criminal cases. The Ministry of Punishments administered law and reviewed judgments sent up from the provinces, particularly death sentences. The Censorate monitored officials and judicial procedure and could request that a wrongful conviction be reopened.

Death sentences were also subject to repeated memorials to the throne. Before an execution, the case had to be reported again for the emperor’s final decision. Xu Yuanqing’s case did not arise in a world without procedure. It entered a judicial system that was unusually elaborate for its time. That is precisely why its conflict between morality and law became so acute.

Chen Zi’ang: Execute Him, Then Honor His Filial Piety

When Xu Yuanqing’s case reached Wu Zetian, it created a dilemma. He had attacked a superior and committed a capital offense. Yet Confucian ethics regarded vengeance for one’s father as inherently justified.

Confucius’ disciple Zixia once asked about avenging a parent. Confucius replied that a child whose parents had been killed should sleep on a straw mat with a shield for a pillow, always ready to fight, and should not share the same sky with the murderer. If the child met the enemy in the marketplace or at court, he should not go home for a weapon but fight on the spot. Zheng Xuan later explained: “A father is his son’s Heaven. To share Heaven with the man who killed one’s Heaven is not the conduct of a filial son.” In Confucian ethics, vengeance for a father could be more than permissible; refusing to avenge him could mean abandoning a son’s most basic duty.

On one side stood the law as an expression of state power. On the other stood a moral claim deeply recognized by society. How could both be satisfied?

Wu Zetian initially leaned toward mercy and considered sparing Xu. His story was genuinely sympathetic. The empress also faced persistent doubts about the legitimacy of having taken the Li family’s throne, and a display of benevolence could help her appear a humane ruler.

The young remonstrating official Chen Zi’ang objected. This was the poet who would later write: “Before me, where are the sages of the past? Behind me, where are those still to come? I contemplate the vastness of heaven and earth, alone, and tears fall.” At Wu Zetian’s court he was known for speaking frankly. In Xu’s case he again challenged the sovereign openly.

Chen argued that if Xu’s filial motive justified setting aside the criminal law—and if that became a principle for future cases—the state would fall into disorder. Xu’s willingness to avenge his father and then submit to judgment was noble precisely because he was prepared to sacrifice his life. Sparing him would diminish the moral force of that sacrifice.

Chen therefore proposed an apparent compromise. Xu must be executed according to the Code, but a monument should be erected at his grave to honor his filial devotion. The first action would uphold the authority of law; the second would complete the work of moral instruction. Wu Zetian accepted the proposal. Xu was put to death, while the state formally commended his filial conduct in his home district. The sword of law fell, and the medal of morality followed.

The solution looked balanced, but it left an unavoidable question. If revenge was genuinely an act of loyalty and filial righteousness, why should the law punish the righteous man? Chen had not resolved the contradiction. He had merely tried to preserve both sides at once. That was precisely what Liu Zongyuan would reject a century later.

Liu Zongyuan: First Ask Whether the Father Deserved to Die

Around the Zhenyuan era of Emperor Dezong, Liu Zongyuan read Chen Zi’ang’s memorial on the case. Troubled by it, he wrote the celebrated “Refutation of the Argument on Revenge.”

Liu began with a simple proposition: praise and punishment cannot attach to the same act. Conduct worthy of praise should not be punished, and conduct worthy of punishment should not be praised. To punish what deserves praise is an abuse of penal power; to praise what deserves punishment violates ritual order. Chen’s solution committed both errors and damaged the seriousness of both rites and law.

For Liu, the real question was not how to preserve both systems at once, but whether Xu should have been executed. Drawing on ritual texts and the Gongyang Commentary, he argued that if the father had been punished unjustly—killed though innocent—the son’s revenge could vindicate justice. If the father had lawfully been executed for a crime, however, the son’s retaliation was no more than indiscriminate killing. It removed no evil and instead defied justice.

The facts of Xu Shuang’s death therefore had to be established before anyone could judge the morality of his son’s revenge.

If Zhao had wrongfully killed an innocent Xu Shuang and local officials had covered it up, leaving Xu Yuanqing without any legal remedy, then his revenge represented a desperate effort to enforce justice after public institutions failed. Liu argued that the authorities should not punish Xu; they should be ashamed of themselves. Local officials had betrayed their supposed role as “father-and-mother officials.” How could they then claim the moral standing to punish a filial son forced to seek justice on his own? In such a case, private self-help could at least be understood.

If, however, Xu Shuang had been guilty and Zhao had lawfully carried out a sentence, then he had died at the hands of state law, not a private enemy. Xu Yuanqing’s revenge would amount to hatred of the emperor’s law and the murder of an official who enforced it. The act would be more than ordinary homicide; it would directly challenge the authority of the legal order. In that case, the state should execute Xu without hesitation, and praise would be absurd.

Liu confined the Confucian ethic of revenge to situations in which a grave injustice had gone unremedied. It was not a general license for clan vendetta. His deeper claim was that rites and law should pursue the same end; their apparent conflict arose because the facts had not been established or the rules had been wrongly applied.

Yet Liu’s solution did not eliminate every difficulty. Even if Xu Shuang had been wrongfully killed, Xu Yuanqing’s premeditated homicide remained a serious offense under the written Code. Applying a statute is a positive legal question; motive and personal history belong to moral evaluation. By allowing private force when public remedies had completely failed, Liu ultimately gave greater weight to ethics. If state law no longer served justice, did the individual remain bound to obey it?

The Collision of State Power and the Rule of Law

The dispute arose from the Tang Code’s attempt to combine rites and law. “Rites” meant moral and social ethics; “law” meant the commands of the state. The Code tried to fuse them, but could not eliminate their underlying tension. Moral norms drew from ancestral reverence, blood revenge, and customary ideas of justice—a kind of natural law. State law drew from sovereign authority and the practical need to preserve public order. It was the extension of state power.

As discussed in the previous episode , Francis Fukuyama argues in The Origins of Political Order that the core of the rule of law is a set of abstract rules broadly recognized as legitimate and possessing authority beyond the current ruler. Such rules exist in natural tension with the state power produced by political centralization.

In Xu’s case, vengeance for a father was close to sacred in traditional moral judgment. Wu Zetian’s initial sympathy reflected respect for filial devotion and righteousness. Running parallel to that value, however, was the cold rule of the Tang Code: killing without public authority was a crime. Xu had deliberately killed an imperial official, and the written law demanded severe punishment.

That was the difficulty. Under the values associated with natural law, Xu’s act was righteous; under the legal framework created by state power, it was a capital crime. As later writers summarized the conflict: “In the rites, a son does not share the sky with his father’s enemy; in law, one who kills must die.”

If the state applied its criminal law without regard to traditional morality, the judgment might lose public acceptance and damage the dynasty’s standing among ordinary people and local officials. Yet if the state ignored written law in order to promote filial ethics, legal authority would also suffer. Once vengeance for a father received official approval, what would prevent others from killing private enemies under the same banner? Society could descend into an endless cycle of retaliation.

Two forces within the same political order had collided with unusual intensity. A misstep could upset the balance of the system and weaken the legitimacy and stability of rule.

China was, in this sense, a “precocious” civilization. It built a powerful state very early and stood far ahead in bureaucratic governance. A transcendent legal tradition capable of constraining that state, however, developed more slowly and remained weak. Xu Yuanqing’s case was one of the rare moments when the tension came fully into view. Most of the time, moral ethics could not move the authority of state law.

In a true rule-of-law order, even the state must submit to rules beyond any individual’s will. In Fukuyama’s formulation, the essence of the rule of law is that “even the king is bound by a body of law that he did not himself create.”

The final solution—“execute first, honor afterward”—is strikingly ironic. Law and morality each seemed to retreat a step, as in a carefully staged reconciliation. But the reconciliation was fragile because it established no common principle. Instead it sent a confused message: killing still required a life in return, yet the court might celebrate the killer if his motive was admirable. That compromise may have preserved order for a moment, but it could not resolve the deeper conflict.

Conclusion

The revenge of Xu Yuanqing is a vivid lesson in legal history. It reveals both the wisdom and the limits of imperial government when confronted by a fundamental social contradiction, and it shows how difficult the road toward the rule of law can be. In an ideal order, law promotes good values and morality is sustained through law. Reaching that point may require, as Liu Zongyuan hoped, the careful resolution of individual cases so that rites and law can recover their shared commitment to justice.

Western legal thought contains a comparable debate. Natural-law theory holds that “an unjust law is not law”: human enactments that violate morality lack binding authority. Legal positivism responds that “an unjust law is still law”: a rule validly enacted through the proper process remains legally binding regardless of its moral content. In the Xu Yuanqing dispute, Liu Zongyuan stands closer to natural law, while Chen Zi’ang resembles, in a limited sense, the positivist position.

More than a thousand years later, the case still has something to teach. Law is not only a set of cold provisions; it also carries the public’s expectations of justice and conscience. Officials must enforce law, but they must also consider its social effects and the values it communicates.

Key Figures

• Xu Yuanqing: Killed County Commandant Zhao Shiwen to avenge his father, becoming the central figure in a Tang debate over rites and law.
• Zhao Shiwen: The local official involved in the execution of Xu Yuanqing’s father and the direct target of the revenge.
• Chen Zi’ang: Argued that Xu should be executed under law while his filial piety should be honored.
• Liu Zongyuan: Criticized Chen’s solution and insisted that state law could not yield to private revenge.
• Wu Zetian: The supreme ruler of the era, embodying the tension between imperial justice and Confucian ethics.

Key Cases and Concepts

• The Xu Yuanqing revenge case: A classic Tang dispute over filial duty, revenge, and the state’s punitive power.
• Tang Code with Commentaries: The representative system of Tang written law and legal interpretation.
• Rites versus law: The question of how courts should choose when Confucian ethics conflict with state law.
• Revenge and public power: The central question of whether private justice may replace state adjudication.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 07｜The Republican-Era Swordswoman and the Clash of Rites and Law: Shi Jianqiao’s Assassination of Sun Chuanfang : Also examines revenge, filial duty, and modern criminal law.

This is the transcript of episode 01 of my podcast Reasoned Talk (议正言辞). Listen on Xiaoyuzhou or Apple Podcasts . The episode is in Chinese; this transcript has been translated into English.

Introduction

On February 5, 2020, during the COVID-19 outbreak, Wuhan’s first temporary hospital opened. In a photograph taken almost by accident by a Hubei Daily reporter, a young man lay on a hospital bed reading Francis Fukuyama’s The Origins of Political Order. The image went viral, and the book became a bestseller in China. It was as though the pressure of the pandemic had prompted people to pay closer attention to political order and state-building.

Francis Fukuyama is a Japanese American writer. He is best known for the controversial “end of history” thesis: after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Western liberal democracy had become the endpoint of humanity’s political development. Beyond that claim, however, Fukuyama has written extensively for general readers about politics and economics. He has a substantial following in China, and The Origins of Political Order is among his most influential books there.

The book’s basic argument is not complicated. Fukuyama maintains that a stable political order rests on three elements: state power, the rule of law, and accountable government. Political orders emerge and develop through the interaction of these three forces. State power can command obedience and protect people from external threats. The rule of law and accountable government, meanwhile, constrain that power, demand openness, and make the state answerable to the wishes of its people.

Fukuyama offers several examples. Afghanistan before 2021 held regular elections, yet the state was so weak that the central government could not govern much of the country. Russia has a powerful state and formal elections, but its rulers are not constrained by law. Singapore combines a strong state with a strong legal order, but in Fukuyama’s view its mechanisms of political accountability remain underdeveloped. None achieves a genuine balance among all three elements. If even one is missing, a political order may eventually decline.

State Power: Why China Built a Modern State So Early

The second part of The Origins of Political Order approaches the subject largely through China. Fukuyama argues that China was the first civilization to construct what we would recognize as a modern state. By 221 BCE, when the Qin dynasty was established, China had created a state in the sense defined by Max Weber—more than eighteen centuries before Europe did. Weber described the modern state as a political organization that successfully claims a monopoly over the legitimate use of force within a defined territory. The Qin plainly possessed those characteristics.

For Fukuyama, the principal force behind China’s early state formation was war. The Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods were marked by continuous conflict on an ever-increasing scale. Some scholars estimate that more than a thousand battles took place, and that the Battle of Changping alone produced more than six hundred thousand casualties. Those figures may be exaggerated, but they still convey a level of warfare far more intense than that of contemporary Europe.

By the late Warring States period, territorial annexation had become the central purpose of war. The number of competing states fell from more than twenty to the seven commonly known as the “Seven Warring States.” Each pursued reforms with a simple objective: expand state power and tighten control over the population. Reform focused on the military, taxation, population registration, and bureaucracy. Governments strengthened their grasp over domestic affairs to sustain the enormous cost of war, while also curbing aristocratic families and local powers that stood in the way of centralization. The most consequential example was Shang Yang’s reform of Qin, which laid the foundations for its eventual conquest of the other six states.

In 221 BCE, Qin destroyed its rivals and established a state that, in Fukuyama’s terms, was modern. Over the next two millennia, clans and local powers periodically pushed back, but an impersonal system—one based less on kinship and status than on a systematic, technical bureaucracy—became deeply embedded in Chinese civilization. By the Ming and Qing dynasties, Chinese state power had reached its height, yet the country still did not make a transition to modern democracy.

Fukuyama argues that Europe did not follow early China’s path, and did not produce a Weberian modern state until the seventeenth century, because religious institutions and aristocratic power were too strong to permit such concentrated state authority. China, conversely, failed to develop effective checks on state power precisely because religious and aristocratic forces were comparatively weak.

The Rule of Law Is More Than Written Law

In Fukuyama’s account, the rule of law consists of abstract principles that people broadly recognize as legitimate. Their authority usually has a transcendent source: religion, custom, or human reason. This differs from law in the ordinary sense. Positive law is made by rulers; the rule of law is a social consensus with a claim to stand above the current government. It therefore limits what a government may enact.

If the question is merely whether a government had written laws, China developed them very early. The first Chinese code with an emerging systematic structure is traditionally attributed to Li Kui, a minister of the state of Wei during the Warring States period. The text of his Canon of Laws has been lost, but later references describe six sections: Theft, Robbery, Imprisonment, Arrest, Miscellaneous Provisions, and General Provisions. The first five addressed different categories of legal relations; the sixth set out principles applicable across the others, somewhat like the general part of a modern code.

By the Qin dynasty, the legal system had become more developed. Qin written law took five principal forms:

• Statutes: the main body of Qin law, laying down rules in criminal, civil, and other matters;
• Orders: commands issued by the emperor and officials to supplement or refine the statutes;
• Questions and Answers on Law: explanations of provisions and legal terminology in question-and-answer form;
• Models for Sealing and Investigation: rules governing adjudication, judicial procedure, and official documents;
• Court Precedents: examples drawn from earlier cases.

China therefore possessed a sophisticated legal system at an early date. But in Fukuyama’s framework, those rules were extensions and instruments of state power, not the rule of law itself. To find a legal tradition with a more universal and transcendent claim, we must turn to Europe.

The Revival of Roman Law and the Legal Profession

Modern legality inherited much from Roman law, but the inheritance was not continuous. As the Roman Empire declined, Roman law gradually gave way to Germanic custom and Christian canon law. In medieval Europe, the law of the Catholic Church represented divine authority and became a body of principles in which people widely believed. For a long period, it also constrained secular power. That was one reason Europe took so long to produce a modern centralized state.

Roman law did not disappear entirely. Although many original Roman legal texts were lost, the sixth-century compilation now known as the Corpus Juris Civilis preserved central Roman concepts and principles. Commissioned by the Byzantine emperor Justinian I, it became the foundation for the later revival of Roman law.

That revival was made possible in large part by the emergence of Europe’s early universities. Relatively independent of secular rulers, these institutions occupied a space between the state and the Church and nurtured elements of a modern political order. In the late eleventh century, the University of Bologna arose within the world of the Holy Roman Empire. It is widely regarded as the oldest modern university and developed Europe’s earliest sustained law-school tradition. It would become the intellectual center of the Roman-law revival.

Through law schools and legal scholarship, knowledge of Justinian’s compilation spread across Europe. The first generation of scholars, known as the Glossators, reconstructed Roman doctrine and tried to recover the meaning of the texts. Later thinkers looked further. Thomas Aquinas, for example, argued that law must be tested by human reason and measured against more universal standards of truth. He encouraged jurists not merely to copy existing rules, but to examine their sources and search for a more universal natural law.

The new universities trained jurists and lawyers who could interpret classical texts and apply specialized legal knowledge. Secular rulers and Church authorities increasingly depended on their expertise, particularly in matters of commercial agreement and property. In the process, lawyers developed a collective professional interest and resisted intrusion by political actors and untrained outsiders.

A shared legal corpus, an independent legal profession, and relatively autonomous judicial institutions together made the Roman-law revival possible. They turned law into a force that political authorities in Europe could not ignore. Fukuyama’s conclusion is that Europe eventually took a path different from that of other civilizations: state power, the rule of law, and accountable government constrained one another, and none could dominate completely. That balance was crucial to the emergence of modern democracy in Europe.

Conclusion

Starting from The Origins of Political Order, we have examined the relationship between state-building and the rule of law. Comparing China and Europe helps explain why, within Fukuyama’s framework, their political development followed such different paths.

Fukuyama is an important contemporary thinker and a characteristic voice of neoliberal thought. Many of his theories remain open to criticism and debate. That is no reason not to understand them and learn from the questions they raise.

Key Figures

• Qin Shi Huang: Beginning with the unification of the six states and the commandery-county system, he represents China’s early centralized state.
• Shang Yang: A major architect of Qin Legalist institutions, linking state mobilization, punishment, and administrative order.
• Justinian I: Oversaw the compilation of the Corpus Juris Civilis, the textual basis for the later revival of Roman law.
• Francis Fukuyama: Explains political order through state capacity, the rule of law, and accountable government.

Key Cases and Concepts

• Qin law: The early empire’s capacity to govern through written rules, administrative hierarchy, and punishment.
• Revival of Roman law: Medieval Europe’s rediscovery, teaching, and use of Roman law, which helped form a professional legal community.
• University of Bologna: A major center for Roman-law scholarship and legal education.
• Natural law: A universal legal principle above the ruler’s command, offering intellectual resources for limiting power.
• State-building, rule of law, and accountability: The three lines used in this episode to read modern political order.

Related Episodes

• Podcast 09｜The End of the Chinese Legal Tradition: How Late-Qing Reforms Reshaped the Rule of Law : Looks back at the institutional transition from traditional legal order to modern rule of law.

Background and preparation for the meeting

The high-stakes meeting took place at a time when Ukraine’s future fate hangs in the balance, and all parties have high hopes for it. The main purpose of Zelensky’s trip is to sign an agreement with the United States on rare earth minerals, which is considered to be a condition for continued military assistance from the United States [2]. The meeting follows weeks of intense negotiations between U.S. allies trying to reconcile differences between Washington and Kyiv. French President Macron and British Prime Minister Starmer have both met with Trump and tried to persuade him to have constructive dialogue with Zelensky [2]. These diplomatic efforts have adopted a flattering tactic, with Macron recalling Trump’s visit to Notre Dame and Starmer hand-delivering a letter from King Charles.[2]

A key background for this meeting is that the Trump administration has previously held peace negotiations with Russia, but excluded Ukraine and Europe [3]. This unilateral action triggered strong dissatisfaction in Kyiv and further aggravated tensions between the two parties. Before Zelensky arrived at the White House, his team was forced to formally agree to Trump’s plan on Wednesday, which finally led to Friday’s meeting [1]. According to the Associated Press, U.S. officials have made it clear that Trump will not meet with Zelensky unless he is willing to accept a negotiation plan with Russia.[1]

Violent clashes at White House meeting

From peaceful beginnings to violent quarrels

The atmosphere at the beginning of the meeting was relatively friendly, and it was reported that within the first half hour, Trump and Zelensky expressed politeness and respect to each other.[1] Trump even expressed his willingness to continue to provide some military assistance to Ukraine until a lasting peace agreement with Russia is reached [1]. However, the situation took a turn for the worse when Zelensky expressed distrust of Putin’s ceasefire commitment[1].

The key turning point for the deterioration of the situation occurred in Zelensky’s speech. He directly called Putin a “murderer and terrorist” and expressed the hope that Trump could stop Putin with a tough stance [3]. This comment obviously offended Trump, who believed that Zelensky’s “hatred” for Putin was an obstacle to peace negotiations[1][3]. When Zelensky tried to explain that Russia had repeatedly violated the ceasefire agreement, Vice President Vance intervened and scolded him for “it is disrespectful to try to argue in the Oval Office in front of the American media”[1][3].

Trump and Vance’s accusations

Trump issued a stern warning to Zelensky, directly threatening: “You either make a deal or we withdraw. If we withdraw, you fight on your own. I don’t think the outcome will be very good, but you will fight."[3] He further accused Zelensky of “risking World War III” and said that Zelensky’s behavior was “very disrespectful to a country that supports you more than many people think it should”[1][3].During the debate, Trump exaggerated the amount of U.S. aid to Ukraine, claiming that it had provided $350 billion, while the actual figure was less than $200 billion[2]. He also claimed that without US military support, the conflict could have ended “within two weeks”[2]. Trump made it clear that he was in the “middle ground” and had no “alignment” with Putin, but he was dissatisfied with Zelensky’s hatred of Putin and believed that this made it difficult for him to broker an agreement[1][3].

Vance became more aggressive in the argument, asking Zelensky if he had ever said “thank you” once.[3] He pointed out that Ukraine is “forcibly recruiting frontline soldiers because you have a manpower problem” and said that Zelensky “should thank the president for trying to end this conflict” [3]. Vance also suggested that the previous Biden administration’s condemnation of Putin only prolonged the conflict [2].

Zelensky’s response

Zelensky has tried to defend himself in the face of these accusations. When Vance mentioned “diplomacy” as the path to peace, Zelensky asked: “What kind of diplomacy are you referring to, JD?” and cited examples of Russia’s past ceasefire violations [1]. He also reminded Vance that Putin had violated the agreement during the Trump administration in 2019[2].

When accused of lacking gratitude, Zelensky tried to express more gratitude, but was interrupted by Trump.[2] In a particularly poignant moment, Zelensky said to Vance: “First of all, during the war, everyone had problems, including you. But you had beautiful oceans that you can’t feel now, but you will in the future."[3] This comment immediately triggered a counterattack from Trump: “Don’t tell us what we will feel. We are trying to solve the problem. Don’t tell us what we will feel."[3]

Consequences and Impact of Conflict

Immediate Consequences

This fierce conflict led to the cancellation of the planned joint press conference and the signing of the economic agreement [1][3]. After the meeting, Trump asked Zelensky to leave the White House and issued a brief but stern statement on social media: “I have determined that President Zelensky is not ready to accept peace if the United States participates because he believes that our participation will give him a huge advantage in negotiations. I don’t want an advantage, I want peace. He disrespected the United States of America in the precious Oval Office. When he is ready to accept peace, he can come back."[2][3]

Zelensky later appeared on Fox News in an attempt to repair damaged relations, saying that public disagreements with Trump and Vance “would be unhelpful to both parties."[1] However, he insisted that Ukraine would not enter into peace discussions with Russia without receiving security guarantees against future aggression[1]. “This is a very sensitive issue for our people,” Zelensky added. “They just want to hear that the United States is on our side, not Russia, but us. That’s all."[1]

Impact on Ukraine’s future

This diplomatic conflict seriously jeopardizes the future of U.S.-Ukraine relations and Kyiv’s ability to defend itself against Russian aggression [1]. Zelensky admitted in a Fox News interview that without the support of the United States, the situation in Ukraine will become more “difficult”[1]. The incident shows that the Trump administration’s support for Ukraine is rapidly waning, which may leave Ukraine in a weaker position in future peace negotiations.

U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, a defense advocate and a staunch supporter of Trump, had previously warned Zelensky to “not be fooled” when meeting with Trump [1]. The suggestion highlights concerns among many U.S. politicians about Trump’s diplomatic style and worries about Ukraine’s future prospects.## Changes in Diplomatic Relations and Geopolitical Significance

Trump’s shift in foreign policy

This conflict clearly demonstrates how Trump is shifting U.S. foreign policy toward his “America First” philosophy, far exceeding the policies of his first term.[1] The unexpected clash has been described as one of the most heated public disputes between global leaders in the Oval Office in recent times, with traditional diplomatic protocol devolving into accusations, shouting and apparent contempt.[1]

The incident occurred a week after U.S. allies tried to resolve differences between Washington and Kyiv, and they tried to persuade Trump not to overture Moscow.[1] On Monday, French President Macron met with Trump to discuss establishing a European-led peacekeeping force in Ukraine, aimed at deterring future Russian aggression and encouraging the US president to adopt a more skeptical attitude towards Putin [1].

Trump’s attitude towards Putin

All parties have observed that Trump shows a clear preference for Putin. When asked if he was “aligned” with Putin, Trump responded: “I’m not aligned with Putin. I’m not aligned with anyone. I’m aligned with the United States of America, for the good of the world. I’m aligned with the world, and I want to end this."[3] However, he then suggested that Zelensky was the main obstacle to negotiations: “Do you see his hatred of Putin? It makes it very difficult for me to make a deal."[3]

Trump’s attitude toward Putin may stem from his belief that Russia was treated unfairly during his first term. He mentioned during the meeting: “Putin has been through a lot with me. He faced a fraudulent witch hunt, and they used him and Russia. Russia, Russia, Russia."[2] This comment refers to the finding by US intelligence agencies that Russia interfered in the 2016 election to benefit Trump’s election.[2]

Jonathan Abbott (Susan Glasser), a journalist who has written books on Putin’s rise, commented: “Donald Trump has changed his position on the conflict, and I believe that context explains the conflict we just saw."[2] This comment implies that Trump is now more aligned with Russia’s position than traditional U.S. support for Ukraine.

Conclusion

The diplomatic dispute in the White House on February 28, 2025 marked a major turning point in the relationship between the United States and Ukraine, reflecting that the Trump administration’s “America First” foreign policy is completely reshaping the United States’ position on the international stage. The open conflict not only damaged relations between the two countries but also exposed deep divisions in the Western alliance over its response to Russian aggression. Trump’s apparent tilt toward Putin contrasts with his harsh criticism of Zelensky, raising widespread concerns about a shift in the direction of U.S. foreign policy.

For Ukraine, the incident could mark a turning point in Western support, putting Kyiv in a more disadvantageous position in future peace talks. Zelensky’s predicament exemplifies the vulnerability of small-state leaders vis-à-vis the geopolitical interests of great powers, especially when the support of powerful allies begins to waver. As the Russian-Ukrainian conflict enters its fourth year, this White House spat could become a critical moment in determining the final resolution of the conflict, with repercussions that will extend far beyond the walls of the Oval Office and reshape the entire European security landscape.

Sources

1. Trump’s Oval Office thrashing of Zelenskyy shows limits of Western allies’ ability to sway US leader | AP News

2. Zelensky invades Trump’s ‘disinformation space’ | CNN Politics

3. Trump and Zelenskyy key takeaways: Oval Office meeting explodes into shouting match - ABC News

4. Trump Berates Zelensky in Fiery Exchange at the White House - The New York Times

5. Full transcript: Trump, Zelenskyy and Vance argue in the Oval Office | National Post

6. Trump and Zelensky Clash in the Oval Office | Council on Foreign Relations 7. Trump objected to Zelenskyy disrespect, White House says

7. apnews.com/article/zelenskyy-security-guarantees-trump-meeting-washington-eebdf97b663c2cdc9e51fa346b09591d

8. What Trump and Zelenskyy said during their heated argument in the Oval Office | PBS News

9. February 28, 2025: Donald Trump presidency news | CNN Politics

10. Key takeaways from the fiery White House meeting with Trump and Zelenskyy | Donald Trump News | Al Jazeera

11. Zelenskyy’s White House meeting ends in blowup with Trump and Vance over Ukraine’s future - CBS News 13. Full Meeting between President Trump, VP Vance and Ukrainian President Zelenskyy in Oval Office

12. Understanding the fallout from the Trump-Zelenskyy Oval Office meeting | King’s College London

13. Excerpts From the Fiery Exchange Between Trump and Zelensky at the White House - The New York Times

14. The Trump-Zelenskyy meeting just blew up. What now? - Atlantic Council

15. Trump and Zelenskiy clash, leaving Ukraine exposed in war with Russia | Reuters

16. In Showdown With Zelensky, Trump Takes Offense on Putin’s Behalf - The New York Times 19. What U.S. lawmakers are saying about Trump and Zelenskyy’s clash at the White House | PBS News

17. Tears and shock in Ukraine and Europe after heated Zelensky-Trump meeting

18. Contentious Trump-Zelensky meeting threatens U.S. support for Ukraine

19. Trump-Zelensky clash highlights Congress at a crossroads over foreign policy

20. Trump’s Angry Meeting With Zelensky Prompts Reactions Worldwide

21. World reacts to Zelenskiy-Trump Oval Office clash

22. Trump Berates Zelensky in Fiery Exchange at the White House 26. Trump-Zelenskyy clash marks a defining turn away from U.S. defense of democracies

23. Trump-Zelenskiy clash divides US Republicans, dims aid prospects

24. Trump’s Zelenskiy outburst a culmination of weeks of frustration

25. How they are reporting it: Trump and Zelenskiy’s Oval Office shouting match

26. Lawmakers in US Congress react to Zelenskiy-Trump Oval Office clash

27. Zelenskiy, Trump clash will accelerate US probe of fraud in Ukraine aide, senior official says 32. Inside the 139 minutes that upended the US-Ukraine alliance

28. Trump touts fair deal with Zelenskiy at White House

29. White House Talks Between Trump, Zelensky Collapse

30. Week in Review: Trump Scolds Ukrainian President Zelenskyy

31. Trump speech to Congress likely to be ‘imperial,’ say analysts

32. Trump, Zelenskyy, Vance Face Off In Oval Office Shouting Match—Here’s Everything They Said

Leaving aside the political and technical arguments, DeepSeek has genuinely made AI more accessible when viewed from the perspective of ordinary users and cost. Compared with overseas large-model providers such as OpenAI, DeepSeek is extremely cheap. For people who want to learn AI applications but have limited budgets, it is indeed one of the best choices.

However, because of capacity limits and large-scale hacker attacks, DeepSeek’s official servers have often been unstable recently. That has caused plenty of inconvenience. Fortunately, the open-source nature of DeepSeek’s large models means they can be deployed on third-party servers. SiliconFlow is one such provider. In cooperation with Huawei Cloud , it offers API access to DeepSeek R1 at a low price, allowing users to use DeepSeek’s model capabilities through its interface.

Getting a Third-Party DeepSeek API

First, register an account on SiliconFlow’s website . You can use my referral code 1MwHUt0X; both you and I will receive 14 CNY in free credit, which can be used to try different models. If the free credit runs out and you want to top up, real-name verification is required, which is part of the local regulatory environment.

After logging in to the SiliconFlow dashboard, you can see the large models it supports, including the popular DeepSeek R1.

To call these models, you first need to create your own API key. In the dashboard, click API Keys on the left, then click Create API Key in the upper-right corner.

Using DeepSeek R1 with Chatbox

Chatbox is an open-source AI chatbot client. It supports almost all major platforms, including desktop, mobile, and web. It can call different AI models for conversation, image generation, coding, copywriting, and many other tasks.

For data security and privacy, all Chatbox runtime data is stored locally. In other words, Chatbox itself is only a tool that passes data to large models. It does not store your data on its own servers. Because of this, if you use Chatbox on multiple devices, settings and chat history do not automatically sync across them.

SiliconFlow’s official documentation explains how to connect its API to Chatbox. Here are the key points.

After installation, Chatbox opens the settings page on first launch. Older versions required adding a custom provider and setting the API domain to https://api.siliconflow.cn. Newer versions of Chatbox now support SiliconFlow natively. Just choose SILICONFLOW API as the model provider, enter your API key, and select the model you want to use.

One thing to note: SiliconFlow provides both Pro/deepseek-ai/DeepSeek-R1 and deepseek-ai/DeepSeek-R1. Only the model without Pro can use the platform’s free credit. The Pro version requires paid balance. Do not choose the wrong one.

After saving the configuration, you can start chatting with the model. Chatbox also includes many useful preset prompt scenarios, and they are worth trying.

Using DeepSeek R1 with the Cline Extension in VS Code

For developers, Visual Studio Code is a very popular code editor, and it supports many AI extensions. With these extensions, VS Code can call SiliconFlow’s DeepSeek R1 API for AI-assisted programming.

After downloading and installing VS Code, search for AI-related extensions in the marketplace. One example is Cline , a plugin that can call different large models to help users write code. It goes beyond simple code completion or technical Q&A. Cline supports OpenRouter, DeepSeek, OpenAI, Google Gemini, GCP Vertex, and other API providers. You can also configure any OpenAI-compatible API, or use local models through LM Studio or Ollama.

Open VS Code, click the extensions button on the left, search for Cline, and click Install on the Cline page.

After installation, click the Cline icon on the left to open the plugin. Then click the settings button in the upper-right corner and configure the API:

• API Provider: OpenAI Compatible
• Base URL: https://api.siliconflow.cn/
• API Key: your SiliconFlow API key
• Model ID: deepseek-ai/DeepSeek-R1

Finally, click save. You can now write code by chatting with the model. Cline supports one-click creation of folders and files. Used properly, even someone with no programming background can build small programs based on their needs.

Closing Thoughts

When DeepSeek’s official servers occasionally fail to connect, SiliconFlow’s third-party API can still provide smooth access to DeepSeek R1. Combined with Chatbox and VS Code, it can support both everyday AI conversations and professional coding assistance.

Event history

Surveillance footage recorded this horrifying scene: a white Ford pickup truck, in order to avoid a police car, rushed onto the sidewalk crazily and crashed into the unsuspecting crowd. Subsequently, the attacker jumped out of the car, armed with an AR-10 semi-automatic rifle and a Glock pistol, and fired wildly. Two police officers were injured in the crossfire. Eventually, three police officers arrived on the scene and shot the attacker dead. But those few minutes left scars on New Orleans’ night that can never be erased. The FBI characterized the attack as a terrorist attack and quickly discovered the identity of the attacker. He is 42-year-old U.S. citizen Shamsud-Din Jabbar. Jabbar is a veteran from Texas. Before the incident, he rented a Ford F-150 pickup truck and carried an AR-15 rifle, a Glock pistol and an improvised explosive device in the car. He even left a will. Hours before the attack, Jabbar checked into a house he rented through an online platform in New Orleans and placed explosive devices there, but the devices did not detonate. The FBI released a photo of a refrigerated container containing an improvised explosive device. Is it a malfunction or is there another reason? In addition, Jabbar was wearing a body armor when committing the crime. There are various signs that this was a premeditated and well-prepared terrorist attack.

The Ghost of ISIS

What is even more shocking is that Jabbar posted multiple videos on social media a few hours before the attack, declaring his allegiance to ISIS and saying that he joined the organization last summer. At the time of the attack, a black ISIS flag hung prominently on the rear bumper of his truck. ISIS, the full name of “Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant”, also known as “Islamic State of Iraq and Syria” (ISIS) or “Daesh” (Daesh), is a transnational Sunni Islamist insurgency and terrorist organization. The organization originated from the Iraq War from 2003 to 2011 and was formerly known as Al Qaeda in Iraq (AQI).

ISIS is notorious for its acts of extreme violence and brutality, including mass executions of captives and minorities, sexual enslavement of women and girls, and beheadings of soldiers and civilians. In 2014, ISIS declared an ISIS-led caliphate after making significant territorial gains in Iraq. Within the territory it controls, ISIS kills, rapes and tortures members of other faiths and targets Sunni Muslims who deviate from its harsh interpretation of Islam. The international community has made a huge effort to eliminate ISIS. A U.S.-led military intervention ultimately drove ISIS from towns and cities in its self-proclaimed country. In October 2019, ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi was killed by U.S. forces in northern Syria. Although ISIS has been defeated, its ideological influence still exists, and some “lone wolf” attackers attracted by its extremist ideas will still launch terrorist attacks in the name of ISIS. The attacks in New Orleans may be one such example.

Suspicion in Las Vegas

Coincidentally, on the same day as the New Orleans terrorist attack, there was also a bombing in Las Vegas. A Tesla Cybertruck exploded outside the Trump Hotel in Las Vegas, causing minor injuries to seven people and killing the driver at the scene. The investigation revealed that the Cybertruck was loaded with gasoline cans, camping fuel cans and large fireworks bombs. Police found a body and a handgun in the exploded vehicle, and the deceased was identified as Matthew Livelsberger, 37, an active-duty soldier. Las Vegas police said the bombing appeared to be a “suicide tragedy.” Investigators believe Livelsberger shot himself while detonating explosives in the car. The FBI said there was no evidence Livelsberger was hostile to President-elect Trump and that he may have suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and other issues. The New Orleans attack and the Las Vegas bombing, both occurring on New Year’s Day, both using rented vehicles and causing casualties, have raised questions about whether the two incidents are related. What’s even more strange is that both cars were rented through the same online car rental platform, Turo. Despite these coincidences, the FBI said it has found no clear connection between the two incidents. The attackers in New Orleans clearly intended to cause mass casualties, while the bombing in Las Vegas looked more like a suicide. However, as the investigation deepens, the connection between the two incidents may become more confusing…

##American Nightmare

In this tragedy, 14 lives were lost. They include students, workers, and beloved family members, ranging in age from 18 to 63, with most in their 20s. They came from Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, New York, New Jersey, and even visitors from the United Kingdom. Their stories are heartbreaking.

• Kareem Badawi, 18, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, is a freshman at the University of Alabama. 30 He had excellent grades, was friendly to his friends, and was full of vision for the future. Unfortunately, he was killed in this attack. 30 His friends found it difficult to accept this fact and could only commemorate him with tattoos. 30 41

• Martin “Tiger” Bech, 27, from New York City, a former Princeton University football star player who worked in bond trading in the cybersecurity field in New York City after graduation. 31 His coaches and teammates remember him as a dynamic, talented athlete. 32 His brother Jack wrote on social media: “Love you forever brother! You inspire me every day and now you can be with me every moment. I will take care of my family, don’t worry. This is for us.” 31

• Nikyra Dedeaux, 18, from Gulfport, Mississippi, dreamed of becoming a nurse, but her dream faded just when her life was about to bloom. 33 Her friend Zion Parsons witnessed the moment the pickup truck plowed into her and is still terrified. 33 He said: “A truck hit the corner and then went on a rampage, like a movie scene, throwing people into the air. It hit her and threw her at least 30 feet away. I’m lucky to be alive.” 33

• Reggie Hunter, 37, a father of two from Prairieville, Louisiana, died while celebrating New Year’s Eve with his cousin. 8 His cousin, Shirell Robinson Jackson, said Hunter was always full of energy and loved to joke, and his passing has brought great sadness to the family. 8 She said: “He loved his children, his sisters, his dad, all of us. He didn’t deserve to die like this.” 8This terrorist attack shocked American society, and people from all walks of life expressed condolences and condemnation. Louisiana Gov. Jeff Landry called it a “horrible act of violence” and said he and his wife were “praying for all the victims and first responders on the scene.” New Orleans Mayor LaToya Cantrell said New Orleans will not be intimidated by terrorism and will continue to host major events. U.S. President Joe Biden said the people of New Orleans sent a clear message: They will not let this attack or the attacker’s delusional ideology overcome us. He also said that the United States will continue to pursue ISIS and other terrorist organizations relentlessly, and they will not find any safe harbor here. However, tragedy has occurred and the lives lost cannot be restored. This incident has once again sounded the alarm for American social security.

Alarm bells ringing

In recent years, extremism has risen in American society, political polarization has intensified, and social divisions have become severe. These are all breeding grounds for terrorism. The COVID-19 epidemic, racial inequality, political elections and other factors have led to a surge in demonstrations and counter-demonstrations in some urban areas in the United States. Individuals and groups with opposing ideologies have confronted each other, leading to a spiral of radicalization, extreme speech and violence. This phenomenon is often referred to as mutual radicalization. The popularity of the Internet has also facilitated the spread of terrorism. Some extremist organizations, such as the “digital caliphate”, use online platforms to recruit members, spread extremist ideas, and incite hatred and violence. In addition, problems such as racial discrimination and religious conflicts in American society have also intensified social conflicts and provided soil for the occurrence of terrorism. The United States’ counterterrorism strategy must keep pace with the times in order to effectively deal with emerging threats such as the “digital caliphate”.

The New Year’s Eve terrorist attacks in New Orleans not only claimed 14 innocent lives, but also caused deep pain to American society and raised concerns about American national security and social cohesion. This incident once again reminds us that terrorism is the common enemy of mankind and requires the international community to work together to deal with it. At the same time, we also need to reflect on how we can eliminate the breeding ground for terrorism, such as online extremism and social polarization, and build a more peaceful and secure world. This requires the joint efforts of the government, society and individuals to strengthen supervision, promote dialogue, eliminate barriers and enhance understanding, so as to effectively prevent similar tragedies from happening again.

Source Links

1. Bourbon Street - Wikipedia

2. Bourbon Street - 64 Parishes

3. New Orleans mourns as Bourbon Street reopens after truck-ramming attack | In Pictures News | Al Jazeera 4. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2025_New_Orleans_truck_attack

4. New Orleans New Year’s Day ramming is the latest attack to use a vehicle as a deadly weapon | PBS News

5. Victims of Bourbon Street attack in New Orleans include former Princeton football star, aspiring nurse, loving dad - CBS News

6. New Orleans: What we know about the attack and suspect Shamsud-Din Jabbar

7. At least 14 killed, dozens hurt on Bourbon Street in New Orleans as driver intentionally slams truck into crowd; attacker dead - CBS News

8. New Orleans attacker acted alone, FBI now believes

9. LIVE: Latest on deadly New Orleans terror attack investigation 5. What is the Islamic State group, and what attacks has it inspired? | AP News

10. Islamic State - Wikipedia

11. War against the Islamic State - Wikipedia

12. Destroyed neighborhood in Raqqa - Islamic State - Wikipedia

13. FBI suspects soldier behind Las Vegas Cybertruck blast suffered from PTSD | Crime News | Al Jazeera

14. Investigation into Cybertruck explosion in Las Vegas shows driver shot himself before the blast, officials say - CBS News

15. Las Vegas Cybertruck bombing outside Trump hotel appears to be suicide of veteran who had PTSD, FBI says - CBS News 12. Shocking connection between Tesla truck that exploded and pickup truck used in New Orleans massacre revealed - Hindustan Times

16. Why the United States is Targeted by Terrorism | START.umd.edu

#Configuration file syntax

Hugo also supports three configuration file syntaxes, namely YAML, TOML and JSON. They are all commonly used data serialization and configuration file formats, and each has its own characteristics and applicable scenarios.

YAML (YAML Ain’t Markup Language)

YAML is a human-readable data serialization format commonly used for configuration files and data exchange. Its syntax format is:

name: John Doe
age: 30
city: New York
hobbies:
- reading
- traveling

Its characteristics are:

• Concise syntax, easy to read and write

• Supports comments, multi-line strings and complex data structures

• Use indentation to indicate hierarchical relationships

TOML (Tom’s Obvious, Minimal Language)

TOML is a language designed to be a minimal configuration file format, designed to be easy to read and write. Its syntax is:

[person]
name = "John Doe"
age = 30
city = "New York"
[person.hobbies]
favorite = "reading"
others = ["traveling", "photography"]

Its characteristics are:

• The syntax is intuitive and easy to understand

• Support comments

• Supports multiple data types, including date and time

• Allows creation of nested data structures

JSON (JavaScript Object Notation)

JSON is a lightweight data exchange format, originally derived from JavaScript, but now widely used in various programming languages. Its syntax format is:

{
  "name": "John Doe",
  "age": 30,
  "city": "New York"
}

Its characteristics are:

• Concise and easy to read

• Fast parsing speed

• Highly compatible with JavaScript

• Support basic data types: string, number, boolean, null, object and array

Considering the readability and compatibility with the current theme, the configuration file syntax I chose is YAML. All the following configuration commands will be presented in YAML format. It is worth noting that YAML is very sensitive to indentation. When rendering with Hugo, even if a line is missing a space, the rendering will fail, so pay special attention.

Add article timeline page (Archives)

Create a new archieves.md in the /Content/ directory and write the following content:

---

title: "Archive"
layout: "archives"
url: "/archives/"
summary: archives

---

#Add search page (Search)

Step 1: Add the following content in the configuration file config.yml:

outputs:
  home:
    - HTML
    - RSS
    - JSON # required for the search page

Step 2: Create a new archieves.md in the /Content/ directory and write the following content:

---
title: "Search" # use any language you prefer
layout: "search" # required for the search page
# url: "/archive"
# description: "Description for Search"
summary: "search"
placeholder: "Enter search keywords here"
---

#Add menu

Add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

menu:
  main:
    - name: Posts
      url: archives
      weight: 5
    - name: Search
      url: search/
      weight: 10
    - name: Tags
      url: tags/
      weight: 10
    - name: About
      url: about/
      weight: 10

Enable Emoji ✅

Hugo natively supports Emoji rendering, just add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

enableEmoji: true

In this way, as long as you enter :emojiname: ​​that conforms to Markdown syntax in the .md file (write the Emoji name between two half-width colons), you can enter an Emoji. You can query the Emoji names in Markdown syntax in this list .

Add Favicon icon

You can refer to my article , visit this website , convert your favorite site icon image into Favicon special format, and put all the generated files in the /static/ directory.

Optional: If you want to put the icon file into a subdirectory of /static/, such as /static/favicon/, you also need to add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

params:
  assets:
    favicon: "/favicon/favicon.ico"
    favicon16x16: "/favicon/favicon-16x16.png"
    favicon32x32: "/favicon/favicon-32x32.png"
    apple_touch_icon: "/favicon/apple-touch-icon.png"
    safari_pinned_tab: "/favicon/safari-pinned-tab.svg" 

Enable code copy button

Add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

params:
  ShowCodeCopyButtons: true

The page turn button displays the page number

Add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

params:
  ShowPageNums: true

Add an RSS subscription button to the article list page

Add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

params:
  ShowRssButtonInSectionTermList: true

RSS Feed output full text

Add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

params:
  ShowFullTextinRss: true

Open external links in new tabs

Create a new render-link.html in the /themes/theme name/layouts/_default/_markup/ directory and write the following content:

<a href="{{ .Destination | safeURL }}"{{ with .Title}} title="{{ . }}"{{ end }}{{ if strings.HasPrefix .Destination "http" }} target="_blank" rel="noopener"{{ end }}>{{ .Text | safeHTML }}</a>

Customize hyperlink style

PaperMod theme supports custom CSS. We can change the default hyperlink style of the website through custom CSS, such as color, underline, and changes when the mouse is hovered.

Create a new custom.css in the /themes/theme name/assets/css/extended/ directory and write the following content:

.post-content a {
  color: #0969da;
  box-shadow: none;
  text-decoration: none;
}

.post-content a:hover {
  text-decoration: underline;
}

This code will set the hyperlink color in the article content to blue (#0969da) and add an underline on mouseover.

SEO optimization related

SEO (Search Engine Optimization) is a method of improving a website’s natural ranking in search engine results pages by optimizing its content and structure. The goal of SEO is to increase the organic traffic of the website, improve the visibility of the website, and attract more target audiences. To do SEO optimization for Hugo site, we need to do the following:

Configuration file optimization

Add the website description in the configuration file config.yml:

params:
  description: "Your site description"

Similarly, we can also set the title, keywords and description for each article, and add the following content at the head of the .md file to define the basic information of the article:

---
title: "Post Title"
keywords:
  - keyword1
  - keyword2
description: "Post description"
---

Create sitemap sitemap

A sitemap is an important website document that provides search engines and users with an overview of your website’s structure. To create a sitemap for a Hugo site, add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

sitemap:
  changefreq: weekly
  filename: sitemap.xml
  priority: 0.5

Among them, changefreq represents the update frequency, filename represents the generated site map file name, and priority represents the default priority of the page. In this way, Hugo will generate a sitemap.xml file in the root directory of the website so that search engines can understand the website structure.

Create robots.txt crawler index

Robots.txt is a plain text file located in the root directory of the website. It is used to submit the sitemap to search engines and instruct search engines how to access and index the website content. To create a robots.txt for a Hugo site, add the following content to the configuration file config.yml:

enableRobotsTXT: true

In this way, Hugo will automatically generate the Robots.txt file in the root directory of the website.

Reference link

Introduction | Hugo

Home · adityatelange/hugo-PaperMod Wiki

Tossing Hugo & PaperMod Theme - Dvel’s Blog

Build Hugo’s personal website | PaperMod theme | ed

PaperMod theme configuration | 🚀 Tian Shaohan’s personal blog

Accident background

The incident took place in Aktau, located in western Kazakhstan and on the coast of the Caspian Sea. The city’s name means “white mountains” in Kazakh because Aktau’s landscape and cityscape appear pale in hue when viewed from the Caspian Sea. According to 2019 statistics, Aktau has a permanent population of only 180,000 people. Initially, this area developed due to oil exploration, and even today, it still has a strong industrial atmosphere. However, it was in this small lakeside town that a sudden disaster broke the tranquility.

The J2-8243 flight that caused the accident was an international flight of Azerbaijan Airlines, flying from Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, to Grozny International Airport in Russia. The aircraft type of the flight is an E190AR passenger aircraft produced by Embraer, which is a short- to medium-range narrow-body passenger aircraft. The aircraft is 36 meters long and can accommodate 98 to 114 people. In the early morning of December 25, at Baku International Airport, the flight departure time was approaching, and passengers were boarding the plane one after another. Following the tower’s instructions, the aircraft began to taxi onto the runway. At this time, the passengers may not realize that this supposedly ordinary flight is flying in a direction full of unknowns and crises.

What happened after the accident

A quick look at the map reveals that the flight took off from Baku, Azerbaijan, and was destined for Grozny in the northwest. However, the plane finally crossed the entire Caspian Sea and flew to Aktau on the other side of the lake, which was obviously inconsistent with common sense**. Flight tracking website Flightrader24 showed that the GPS signal of the flight from Baku to Grozny was abnormally interfered when it crossed the Russian border. Immediately afterwards, the flight began to deviate from its original route, first heading west, and then turning 180 degrees and flying east towards the Caspian Sea. Finally, he arrived at Aktau on the other side of the Caspian Sea and requested an emergency landing from the local control tower. According to a New York Times interview with a crash survivor, everything on the flight started out as normal. However, as the flight continued, some passengers began to notice strange vibrations—at first it was a slight bump that was almost unnoticed; then it became a more violent tremor, the clouds outside the window rolled, and there was a small noise in the cabin. Then, a violent vibration almost threw everyone from their seats. Oxygen masks fell from overhead, and chaotic shouts erupted in the cabin. Passengers scrambled to grab their masks, trying to regain their composure. The crew’s voices also became raspy now, but not entirely clear. At this moment, they realized that this was not a simple air turbulence, but some kind of more deadly threat.

It is not difficult to see from the video shot by local residents that during the emergency landing of the plane, although the pilot tried his best to control the landing posture of the plane, the huge impact and instantaneous stall had caused the aircraft fuselage to lose balance. In the end, the plane dived to the ground at an excessive angle. The right wing touched the ground first, then rolled and exploded, splitting the body into two parts. The nose section was destroyed by the explosion the moment it touched the ground, and the tail section was upside down outside the main wreckage.

Public data shows that there were 67 people on the accident flight, of which 37 were from Azerbaijan, accounting for more than half; followed by 16 people from Russia, 6 people from Kazakhstan, and 3 people from Kyrgyzstan. Moments before the accident, a passenger filmed the situation inside the cabin with his mobile phone. This was an extremely serious air crash. 38 of the 67 people on board were killed. Among the last survivors, there are also patients with serious injuries such as brain injuries, concussions, chest injuries, and traumatic shock. The day after the accident, the president of Azerbaijan declared national mourning.

Analysis of accident causes

After the accident, the Russian Federal Air Transport Agency issued a statement stating that it was initially believed that the plane was hit by a flock of birds. Due to an emergency on board, the captain decided to divert to Aktau Airport. But is this really the case?

It is not difficult to see from the video taken at the accident scene that there are many traces similar to single holes on the wreckage of the plane involved. Combined with the abnormal GPS interference information displayed on the Flightrader24 website, we have to wonder whether the accident is related to the air defense system in Russia.

Since the Russian-Ukrainian war broke out in February 2022, Russia has been full of gunpowder near its borders in Central Asia and Eastern Europe. Just before the accident occurred on December 21, Ukraine launched a drone air strike on the city of Kazan in Russia, causing damage to two high-rise residential buildings in the city. This was the rare time Ukraine launched an air strike on a city in Russia since the outbreak of the war. In this case, Russia’s air defense system has been on high alert.

Therefore, Emirates Flight 8243 was probably shot down by the Russian air defense system. When the aircraft flew near the Russian border, it was misidentified by the Russian air defense system, resulting in GPS interference and anti-aircraft shooting. And because the nearby airport was unable to land due to heavy fog, the captain had to change direction and control the damaged fuselage to fly toward the Caspian Sea in the east. Finally, the emergency landing failed in Kazakhstan on the coast of the Caspian Sea, causing the plane to crash.

Several Reuters reports echoed the same sentiment. The agency quoted some survivors of the accident as saying that they heard several loud bangs as the plane approached its original destination of Grozny; four sources familiar with the preliminary results of the accident investigation said that the accident plane was hit by a Russian Pantsir-S surface-to-air missile system. As the plane approached Grozny, the aircraft’s communication system was disabled by the electronic warfare system.

Although the final investigation report of the accident has not been released so far, we cannot 100% conclude that the accident was related to Russia. But in history, Russia has been linked to civil aviation disasters more than once.

Similar accidents

As early as 10 years ago, it was during the Crimean crisis in Ukraine. On July 17, 2014, at 12:15 noon, Malaysia Airlines flight MH17 took off from Amsterdam Airport in the Netherlands and flew to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. At 16:20 p.m., the Boeing 777-200ER passenger plane flying the flight suddenly crashed while cruising in the airspace of eastern Ukraine. All 283 passengers and 15 crew members on board were killed. The accident investigation report shows that Malaysia Airlines flight MH17 was destroyed by a Buk missile launched by the Russian military. However, Russian officials have so far denied that the crash was caused by a Russian attack, and claimed that the Ukrainian Air Force was the real culprit of the accident. Since the invention of civil aviation, air crashes, large and small, have never stopped. Whether it is the Emirates Airline 8243 crash or the Malaysian Airlines MH17 crash ten years ago, it is a profound warning. Whether it is due to technical failure, bad weather, or human error, the occurrence of air crashes always brings profound pain and reflection. However, behind some air disasters, there are heavier costs hidden - wars, terrorist attacks, and political struggles. These innocent lives were taken away due to global strife and conflicts. They were not only passengers on the flight, but also ordinary people like you and me. They also had dreams, families, and life trajectories of their own.

Our memory of the deceased is also a memory of ourselves. The death knell is tolling alone for everyone. In the future, we must appeal to the voices of peace and seek a more rational and tolerant world order. Let the departed souls find peace, and let all families no longer suffer innocent destruction due to disputes.

Source Links

1. [Azerbaijan Airlines Flight 8243 crash - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia](https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E9%98%BF%E5%A1%9E%E6%8B%9C%E7 %96%86%E8%88%AA%E7%A9%BA8243%E5%8F%B7%E7%8F%AD%E6%9C%BA%E7%A9%BA%E9%9A%BE)

2. Aktau - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

3. Embraer E Series - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

4. Flight history for Azerbaijan Airlines flight J28243

5. Kazakhstan Plane Crash Survivors Describe Chaos on Azerbaijan Airlines Flight - The New York Times

6. Azerbaijan Airlines passenger plane crashed; Russian regulators believe there was an emergency after colliding with a flock of birds - RTHK 7. [Ukrainian drones penetrate deep into Russian territory Hitting high-floor apartments in Kazan](https://www.rfi.fr/cn/%E5%9B%BD%E9%99%85%E6%8A%A5%E9%81%93/20241222-%E4%B9%8C%E5%85%8B%E5%85%B0%E6%97%A0%E4%BA%BA%E6%9C %BA%E6%B7%B1%E5%85%A5%E4%BF%84%E5%A2%83-%E5%87%BB%E4%B8%AD%E5%96% 80%E5%B1%B1%E5%B8%82%E9%AB%98%E6%A5%BC%E5%B1%82%E5%85%AC%E5%AF%93)

7. Exclusive: Survivors on Azerbaijani plane say they heard bangs before it went down | Reuters

8. Russian air-defense system downed Azerbaijan plane, sources say | Reuters

9. [Preliminary investigation shows that the Azerbaijan Airlines flight was shot down by Russian air defense forces](https://www.rfi.fr/cn/%E5%9B%BD%E9%99%85/20241226 -%E5%88%9D%E6%AD%A5%E8%B0%83%E6%9F%A5%E6%98%BE%E7%A4%BA%E9%98%BF%E5%A1%9E%E6%8B %9C%E7%96%86%E8%88%AA%E7%A9%BA%E5%85%AC%E5%8F%B8%E8%88%AA%E7%8F%AD%E8%A2%AB%E4 %BF%84%E7%BD%97%E6%96%AF%E9%98%B2%E7%A9%BA%E9%83%A8%E9%98%9F%E5%87%BB%E8%90%BD)

10. Pantsir-S1 missile - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia 12. Investigation by the Dutch Safety Board | MH17 incident | Government.nl

I introduced the installation and configuration method of Home Assistant in an article in April 2022. At that time, to connect Xiaomi’s many smart homes to HA, we had to install a third-party HA integration, namely Hass-Xiaomi-Miot . It is released on GitHub by an individual developer al-one and has always been our only choice to connect Mijia to HA. Until recently, Xiaomi released the official HA integration on GitHub: HA_Xiaomi_Home , filling the gap of Mijia access to HA.

Although this is another story of “officials forcing a fan to death”, Xiaomi’s open source spirit is still worthy of praise. Compared with third-party integration, Xiaomi’s official integration has better support for its own products and can help us connect Mijia to HA more easily, thereby realizing the interconnection between Mijia and the Homekit ecosystem. Today, we will follow the official document of HA_Xiaomi_Home to introduce in detail the installation and use of this integration.

Install Mijia official integration through HASC

Mijia officially integrates a variety of installation methods, among which the simplest and most novice-friendly method is to install through HACS . For details on the installation method of HASC, please refer to my article, and I will not go into details here. Since Mijia official integration has not yet been added to the official library of HASC, we need to add the Mijia official integrated library link to the HASC directory by adding a custom library link. Log in to the HA backend, click HASC on the left, then click the three dots in the upper right corner, select Custom Repositories, and create a new custom library link, as shown in the figure below. Select Integration for the library type (Catagory); fill in the following link for the library link:

https://github.com/XiaoMi/ha_xiaomi_home.git

Finally, click the ADD button. If there is no problem with the network, the Mijia officially integrated installation link will be added to the HASC custom directory. Then click Settings - Devices and Integration - Add Integration, enter Xiaomi in the search box, and select XIaomi Home in the pop-up results. Next, follow the prompts to log in to your Mijia account.

Note: warning:: If you are like me and use Docker as the HA installation environment, then there is a high probability that you will encounter the problem of being unable to jump during Mijia account verification. The core reason why it cannot jump is that the Mijia official integration uses the local domain name homeassistant.local:8123 by default to jump back to the HA page, and the HA in the Docker container cannot broadcast the .local local domain name in the local LAN. Therefore, when verifying the Mijia account and jumping back to the HA page, we need to manually change homeassistant.local:8123 in the browser address bar to IP:8123. This will complete the verification of Mijia account. The above method refers to Issue#8 from the Mijia integrated warehouse.

Disable redundant Mijia entities

After we install Mijia official integration and complete account verification, HA will automatically search and add various Mijia devices. At the same time, a tangle of entities will appear in our homes. The so-called entity (Unit) is a concept used by HA to define the smallest sub-functional unit of the device. Usually a device corresponds to multiple entities. For example, a “water heater” device can have multiple entities such as “current water temperature”, “target water temperature”, “preheating switch”, and “boost switch” at the same time.

However, in daily use, we do not need to split each device into many fragmented sub-functional units. This is not only confusing, but also makes our home interface extremely cumbersome. Therefore, before linking HA to Homekit, we need to filter the many entities added by Mijia integration and only retain the switches and values ​​we need most in our daily use.

Click Settings - Devices and Integration - Entities, click the entity we don’t need in the list, close the entity in the pop-up dialog box, and finally click Save. In this way, we deactivate an entity that is not needed.

Bridge HA to Homekit

After filtering out unnecessary Mijia entities, we can bridge HA to Homekit. For most people, the only purpose of connecting Mijia to HA is to connect Mijia and Homekit. Homekit is Apple’s native smart home protocol, which allows users to directly control home appliances on Apple devices such as iOS, Mac and Apple Watch without resorting to third-party apps. As we all know, the Homekit home ecosystem is far less prosperous than Mijia, and most products that support the Homekit protocol are expensive. Therefore, if you connect Mijia Ecosystem to Homekit, you can achieve both convenience and cost-effectiveness. HA is the best bridge between Mijia and Homekit.

To bridge the HA entity to Homekit, we need to install another integration: Homekit Bridge . Click Settings - Devices and Integration - Add Integration, enter Homekit Bridge in the search box, and then follow the prompts to install. After the installation is complete, a QR code will pop up in the HA notification bar. Open the Home APP of the Apple device, click the plus sign in the upper right corner - Add Accessories, and scan the QR code in the notification to bridge all existing entities on the HA to the Home APP.

For personal reasons, I deleted my Google account earlier this year. As a result, my old GitHub account could no longer pass 2FA, which meant I could no longer update articles at my old blog address . So I registered a new GitHub account and moved the old posts here.

I wonder how many people had bookmarked the old address. From their point of view, I may have simply stopped updating forever. That is one of the biggest drawbacks of publishing personal writing on a low-social static blog: there is no real way to contact readers. I cannot forward this migration notice to any old reader, which is a real pity 😞.

Since I changed both the GitHub account and the blog address, I also changed my pen name from Bright to Mason. Bright, a name that never sounded all that native, actually came from one of my favorite video games, The Legend of Heroes: Trails in the Sky. Bright is the family name of the game’s protagonists. During graduate school, my Legal English teacher, an old San Francisco boy named David, once gently told me that Bright did not really suit me. So I started using Mason, a more natural English name, though I still like the word Bright very much 🙂.

I am saying all this for any old readers who may happen to find the new blog: Bright and Mason are the same person. But perhaps saying it is pointless. Let it all go with the wind 👋.

About the Theme Change

I have always used Hugo to generate my static blog. The method is described in this post . The old theme was Hugo-fuji , created by a Chinese developer. It was clean and simple, and I liked it a lot.

Unfortunately, newer versions of Hugo deprecated several modules that Hugo-fuji depended on, making the theme incompatible with the current version of Hugo. The author also seems to have stopped maintaining the project two or three years ago. So I had to change themes.

After looking around, I found that there really are not many simple and good-looking themes. In the end I chose Hugo-PaperMod , which is the theme you see now. It supports more customization and adapts well across platforms, though it is not as simple to use as Hugo-fuji.

That is all my rambling about moving the blog and changing themes. I hope it was not too tedious. I will keep updating posts here and try to post a little more often. As for YouTube and the podcast, I also want to restart them. Who knows how long I can keep it up this time?

Why Resist the Void

In 2023, I went through many changes in work and relationships. Fortunately, most of them have now been resolved, but new problems keep appearing. I cannot say whether I, or the whole era, are still moving upward. The immense uncertainty of the future keeps pushing me toward nihilism.

I am not someone who wants merely to scrape by. But as time passes, I feel more and more strongly the absurdity of the world and the emptiness of life as part of that absurd world.

On the last working day of 2023, I posted a WeChat Moments update summarizing my year in a few words: “work injury, surgery, moving, buying a car, proposal.” It was like writing a chronicle of someone in another universe who had nothing to do with me. My own experiences were reduced to a handful of plain words.

In the past, I arrogantly treated these insignificant experiences as part of my important personal history, recording them again and again in rough year-end summaries, as if that could resist the meaninglessness of life. Gradually I realized that the void of life does not exist only at the level of narration. It exists solidly. It is larger than our own existence, and older than our own history.

Does that mean we should accept the void? When we make choices that appear important, should we still take them seriously? If the world is absurd and life is empty, why struggle to choose at all?

I thought about this for a long time, especially while lying in a hospital bed after a traffic accident. I still do not have a definite answer, but a vague idea has appeared in my mind: I want to resist the void.

The absurdity of the world may be unshakable, but that does not stop us from resisting the emptiness of life. “The emptiness of life” is a conclusion drawn from outcomes: no matter how hard we struggle, the final result may have no meaning. But perhaps we are not born to pursue a result, nor to create some grand meaning. The process of existing itself should be what we pursue.

Years ago, someone seriously discussed a question with me: if we knew in advance that a relationship would not end well, should we still try to maintain it? At the time, I was unsure and did not understand the deeper meaning. Now I think it perfectly explains why we resist the void.

The meaning of a relationship does not lie in whether it ends well. It lies in whether it gives the people inside it moments of peace and joy. Even if I knew in advance that a relationship would have no result, I should still try to accept it, maintain it, and enjoy it. That is both the process of resisting the void and the reason to resist it.

Even if we are entering a turbulent era, even if great risks are unavoidable, even if I may face more suffering, I still want to struggle with all my strength and enjoy the process of struggling. The purpose of resisting the void is not to eliminate it, but to accept and even enjoy it. I want to pursue inner peace and spiritual freedom before the building collapses, so that when the final judgment comes, I can smile and perish with the world.

How to Resist the Void

If we want to resist the void, we need to find the right way.

I grew up in an era that heavily stigmatized pre-Qin Confucianism. From the official sphere to ordinary public discourse, most people were either distorting and using Confucian thought, or attacking and rejecting it. Confucianism tells us to first cultivate ourselves, then order the family, then govern the state, and finally bring peace to the world. Our textbooks taught the reverse: put others before oneself, put the state before the family, and learn from Comrade Lei Feng.

This overly “modern” approach destroyed the original social structure. It pulled everyone away from their small natural communities and made them submit to a constructed larger community. Absurdity and emptiness became more visible, hovering over everyone and slowly eating away at life.

To resist this modern, imposed sense of emptiness, we need to return to an older place: to the original, more “natural” social structure, and to the thought rooted in that structure. That means early Confucian thought before later fusion and distortion.

To resist the void, we should first cultivate ourselves and then tend to the family. We should make ourselves calm and full, then make the household harmonious and secure, and only then consider those constructed concepts. The same approach applies when facing complex social events. We should first respect and care about the person, the human being, and only then turn to the other things made up of individual people. If everyone were willing to think and act this way, the world would surely become better.

In 2023, I was still struggling on the road of self-cultivation and family-building, and on the road of resisting the void. I tried hard at many things, and I messed up many things. In 2024, this will remain my theme. The most important part for me is self-cultivation. More specifically, it is staying humble.

In 2022, we witnessed a low point of civilization. The great bell was cast aside while the clay pot rang; countless people suffered under the crushing weight of power. Fortunately, thunder still comes from silence, and the curve of civilizational decline still has temporary rebounds. Perhaps no one expected the fire in Urumqi to spread across the whole country. Between people and their long-lost courage, there was only a blank sheet of paper.

In 2022, we finally caught a glimpse of normal life. The price was overflowing pharmacies, hospitals, and funeral homes. On the afternoon of January 18, I walked into a somewhat unfamiliar entry-exit administration hall and saw it packed with people. Long lines stretched in front of the passport counters. People seemed ready to run toward the world. But who knows? Maybe before long, the open door will close again at just the right moment.

Facing an absurd world, I have also thought about the purpose of life. Especially when land I had worked hard to cultivate would not bear fruit, and when the distant shore I had searched for so long would not appear through the clouds, I felt regret and sadness. But the world gives no answer. It is like the pendulum of a clock, swinging endlessly, repeating a purposeless return.

Later I read Camus and learned that the world is absurd, and life has no purpose. Or rather, existence itself is the purpose. We do not need to rack our brains searching for the purpose of life, because a life with a fixed purpose is sad and runs against the absurdity of the world. All we can do is recognize the absurd and embrace the void.

In 2022, I embraced the void in my own way. The year before, I bought a small apartment in my third-tier hometown as one of the material conditions for marriage. The purchase landed exactly at the peak of both housing prices and mortgage rates. If I had to calculate profit and loss, I had already taken a loss of nearly 200,000 RMB within a year.

For a while, my state of mind was poor, especially when the very purpose of buying the apartment seemed to be moving away from me. Later, I finally recovered the essence of existentialism. I am Sisyphus, endlessly pushing the stone up the mountain, and my life is the stone that keeps rolling back down. I told myself: my apartment is not a means to achieve some other purpose. It is the purpose itself. It is a quiet space where I can be alone, an anchor while I sail at sea, and the foundation of all my spiritual freedom.

Yes, pursuing spiritual freedom, recognizing the absurdity of the world, and embracing the void of life were the greatest things 2022 gave me. In 2023, I will try not to cling to so-called purpose, not to obsess over the absurdity of the world, and instead live attentively and freely.

Finally, at the last moment of the Year of Renyin, I wish all of you a way out of the low valley of the old year, and a life you truly want.

If you often mess with your home network, you must often encounter these problems:

1. Why can’t I open the backend of the router even though the network cable is plugged in?
2. Why does the NAS’s IP address often change?
3. Why does the speed of opening web pages become slower when using expensive soft routing?
4. Why can’t I play the bypass route even after following the boss’s video configuration?

The above problems are actually related to DHCP.

What is DHCP?

DHCP is the abbreviation of Dynamic Host Configuration Protocol, which means Dynamic Host Configuration Protocol. Its function is to automatically assign an IP address to each device connected to the LAN and automatically configure the default gateway and DNS server for these devices.

Glossary

It’s okay if you don’t understand what gateways and DNS mean. You can think of gateway as a transfer station. All devices in the LAN must communicate with the outside world through this transfer station. However, there is usually only one gateway for home networks, which is the router. DNS is a little more complicated. I will make a separate video to explain it later. Here you just need to understand it as a “phone book”.

How DHCP works

The DHCP protocol consists of a server and multiple clients. The server is generally your router, and the client is the device you use to access the Internet.

Discoer

Whenever a new device connects to a LAN for the first time, it broadcasts its MAC address to the entire network. The so-called MAC address is the hardware address of each device. It is written on the device’s network card and cannot be changed under normal circumstances. It is equivalent to the “ID card number” of the device. When a new device connects for the first time, it broadcasts its MAC address to the LAN, which is equivalent to the new employee’s self-introduction. This self-introduction has a very foreign name, called Discover.

Offer

When the router receives the broadcast of a new device, it will select a vacant address among the existing IP addresses that has not been occupied by other devices, and package this address and other configuration information (such as default gateway and DNS) and send it to the device, which is equivalent to the leader assigning a workstation to a new employee. This arrangement also has a very foreign name, called Offer.

Request

The next thing is very simple. When the device receives the configuration information sent by the router and decides to apply these configurations, it will reply to the router again, which is equivalent to accepting the arrangement of the leader. This reply also has a very foreign name, called Request.

One thing to note here is that if there are more than two routers in the LAN, and these routes have the DHCP service enabled, then after receiving the broadcast of the new device, they will send configuration information to the device at the same time. When the device receives multiple configuration information at the same time, it will reply to the one received first. Therefore, in order to avoid network chaos, even if you have multiple routers at home, it is best to only enable one DHCP service.

###ACKBack to the topic, when the router receives a positive reply from the device, it will reply to the device to indicate that the space occupation is successful. At this time, the device will automatically configure its own network based on the IP address, default gateway and DNS server issued by the router to achieve successful networking. This reply from the router is called ACK.

Answer question 1

Having said that, we have solved the first problem mentioned at the beginning of the video:

• Why can’t I open the backend of the router even though I have plugged in the network cable?

There are two possibilities here: 1. Your router does not have the DHCP service enabled, and your computer does not receive the IP address issued by the router. 2. Your router has the DHCP service enabled, but your computer has been previously set with a static IP address, and this static address and the address of the router are not in the same network segment.

To solve the problem of “cannot open the background”, the method is also very simple: 1. If it is the first case, then we need to manually configure a static IP address on the computer first, and this address must be in the same network segment as the router. For example, if the IP address of the router is 192.168.31.1, then the static address of the computer must be set to 192.168.31.x. The x here can be any number from 2 to 255, but be careful not to overlap with other devices. 2. If it is the second case, then we need to clear the static IP address of the computer and change the IP address acquisition method to “obtain an IP address automatically”. In this way, our computer will accept the assignment of DHCP service again.

NAK message

Back to the topic again, the entire process mentioned above is the process for a new device to connect to the LAN for the first time. If it is not a new device that is connected for the first time, but an old device that has been connected before. If you disconnect and reconnect, you will skip the first two steps and start directly from Request. This is equivalent to an old employee returning after leaving the company, directly omitting the polite process and asking the leader to give you a workstation.

At this time, the router will check the previous DHCP lease table. If the device’s previously corresponding IP address is still vacant, an ACK will be returned as usual. The lease continues to be valid and the device continues to use its previous IP address. If the device’s previous corresponding IP address has been occupied by another device, the device’s request can only be rejected. Then this action of rejection is called NAK.

Answer question 2

Speaking of which, we have solved the second problem mentioned at the beginning of the video:

• Why does the NAS’s IP address keep changing?

The reason is that when the NAS is shut down and offline, the IP address originally occupied becomes vacant and occupied by other devices. When the NAS is turned back on and online, the router can only reassign it a new IP address. At this time, we will not be able to find the backend of the NAS, and we need to use software such as Synology finder to search for the new address of the NAS again.

It is also very simple to solve this problem, that is, turn on the IP/MAC binding of the router, assign a fixed IP address to a specific MAC address, and achieve “one carrot and one pit”, so that there will be no confusion.

DHCP application

***Knowing how DHCP works, we can solve many problems during the Internet access process.

Answer question three

• Why does the speed of opening web pages become slower when using expensive soft routing?

If the speed of opening web pages is very slow, or if QQ can connect to the Internet, but the web pages cannot be opened, it is probably because there is a problem with the DNS server. The DNS server of our home network is usually obtained from the operator through the optical modem, and then delivered layer by layer through the DHCP service of the router. If we do not specify a DNS server in the router’s DHCP service, the router will default to the operator’s DNS. As we all know, the operator’s DNS is often hijacked and is neither safe nor stable to use.

Therefore, to solve the problem of “slow web browsing”, we can manually specify a stable DNS server address in the router’s DHCP service, so that all devices in the LAN can apply the DNS issued by the router’s DHCP. As for the useful public DNS servers, you can search a lot on the Internet. The more common ones include the famous Google 8.8.8.8 in foreign countries, and Alibaba 223.5.5.5 in China.

With the increasing popularity of smart homes, major Internet giants have entered the market one after another, resulting in more and more smart home platforms and brands, and the products of various platforms and brands cannot be interoperable. For example, you cannot use Mijia smart switches to control homekit smart lights unless your product supports dual platforms, but currently there are very few smart homes that support more than two platforms at the same time.

Home Assistant (hereinafter referred to as HA) solves the problem of non-interoperability between smart home platforms. It is an open source smart home integration platform that can connect products from various common platforms and control them uniformly through various clients such as web pages and mobile app to achieve the true “Internet of Everything”. And the most important thing is that such a useful tool not only supports multiple operating systems such as Windows, MacOS, Linux, etc., it is also open source and free, and its extremely high scalability also provides a new research object for digital enthusiasts who love tossing.

Deploy HA container via Docker

As mentioned earlier, HA supports multiple operating systems, but if we plan to use it as a 7x24-hour standby smart home hub, the best choice is the Linux system, because it can run on low-power devices such as Raspberry Pi , ready to provide services to us at any time.

When it comes to Linux, we have to mention Docker. It is a highly compatible container system that can adapt to almost all Linux environments and can be installed and used out of the box. Today, we will focus on deploying HA through Docker containers.

My this article introduces in detail Portainer , a very easy-to-use Docker management container. Since the system environment of each reader is different, all Docker container installations introduced in this blog will no longer be limited to Synology, QNAP or Unraid, but will be unified through Portainer.

For the installation of Portainer itself, you can refer to the article mentioned above, and I will not go into details here. To install HA, we first need to log in to the Portainer backend, then enter the local terminal interface, which is Local, and then click Containers on the left to enter the local container management interface. Click Add container to create a new container, fill in the Name as you like, and enter the image index homeassistant/home-assistant:latest officially provided by HA as Image. Always pull the image can be turned on, so that every time the container configuration is modified in the future, the latest image will be re-pulled from the server. Then click Volumes in Advanced container settings below, enter the directory mapping tab, click the map additional volume button to add a directory mapping, and select bind for the mapping method on the right. The directory in the container can only be written to /config, which is the directory where the HA configuration file is located. The directory on the host can be filled in according to your own needs. Continue to click Env in Advanced container settings, enter the environment variable tab, click the add environment variable button to add an environment variable, fill in TZ for the name on the left, and fill in Asia/Shanghai for the value on the right. This sets the default time zone (Time Zone) of HA to Asia/Shanghai. The remaining advanced settings are relatively simple. Set Network to host and Restart policy to Always. Finally, click Deploy the container and wait for a while. If the network connection is smooth, the deployment of the HA container can be completed.

The default backend port of HA is 8123, so as long as we access the ip address: 8123 of the HA running device in the LAN, we can log in to the HA web page. When opening the HA web page for the first time, you need to perform some basic initialization configuration, such as user name and password, which will not be described here. It should be noted that the password of the HA administrator account cannot be retrieved. If we forget the password set here, we can only solve it by reinstalling the container.

Install HACS integration

The full name of HACS is Home Assistant Community Store, which is a HA community store that provides various appearance themes and third-party integrated downloads. It is very easy to use and is recommended for all HA users to install. To install HACS, you first need to put its installation package into the HA container. Create two new directories in the /config directory mapped by HA, named www and custom components respectively. Click here to download the HACS installation package. Unzip the hacs directory in the compressed package to the personal components directory just created, and then restart the HA container. Log in to the HA web page, click Configuration - Devices and Services - Integration in the lower left corner to enter the Integration tab. Click the Add Integration button in the lower right corner, search for HACS, click Install HACS Integration, and then follow the prompts to install it smoothly. During the installation process, you need to log in to GitHub once. If you do not have an account, you need to register one. In addition, the installation process requires a scientific network environment, which can only be solved by yourself. After the installation is complete, restart the HA container again. If nothing else, there will be an additional HACS button on the left side of the web page. Click it to enter the HACS store interface.

Connect Mijia to HA

In the past, to connect Xiaomi’s many smart homes to HA, we had to install a third-party HA integration, namely Hass-Xiaomi-Miot . It is released on GitHub by an individual developer al-one and has always been our only choice to connect Mijia to HA. Until December 2024, Xiaomi released the official HA integration on GitHub: HA_Xiaomi_Home , filling the gap of Mijia access to HA.

Although this is another story of “officials forcing a fan to death”, Xiaomi’s open source spirit is still worthy of praise. Compared with third-party integration, Xiaomi’s official integration has better support for its own products and can help us connect Mijia to HA more easily, thereby realizing the interconnection between Mijia and the Homekit ecosystem. For details on how to install and use Xiaomi’s official integration, please see my latest article , which will not be updated here.

Over the past year, the world and I both lived in the aftershock of Covid. We gradually gave up the fantasy of “defeating” the virus and began thinking instead about how to coexist with it. In mid-April , I ended my drifting law-firm internship across Shenzhen, Chongqing, and Nanjing, then enjoyed a month of idle time while suffering through acute otitis media. The June graduation season passed with the wind. I then moved again, this time to Hangzhou, and officially began life as a corporate worker.

As a so-called new first-tier city that tries to measure itself against Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Shenzhen in every way, Hangzhou has long since lost its old medieval charm. It has become a gathering place for nouveau riche ambition, searching for direction amid aggressive infrastructure development and the smoky fever of the internet industry. In this strange gold-rush atmosphere, even so-called central state-owned enterprises have had to start preaching “entrepreneurship.”

I have never liked this mood, because behind every scene that appears vigorous and thriving lies the extreme exploitation of individual bodies and minds. Besides, beneath the tall buildings, the foundation of decline has already been laid. For people born in the 1990s like me, who have briefly tasted openness and freedom, the decline of civilization is visible to the naked eye. Along with that decline comes deep discomfort and pessimism.

Fortunately, even in a broader downturn, individuals can still move against the current. In 2021, with my parents’ help, I finally bought my first apartment, and I worked hard to pay for the renovation with my own income. In the near future, I will also marry Ms. Zhang and try to shoulder the responsibilities of a family.

Perhaps this is the last stubborn hope of someone supposedly “born proud” in a generally shabby age: to earn money cleanly, and to make people believe that earning money cleanly is possible. Though the person who first said something like this has now become one of the top livestream sellers on Douyin.

I have always believed that for human beings, suffering is a required course and happiness is an elective. That is why I often lack sympathy for the accidents of life that befall others, because in a broad sense, everyone is barely surviving inside uncertainty. But I also believe that people can, through effort, eliminate much of the suffering that lies beyond mere fate: by solidarity and individual effort, by removing institutional evil, by leaving violence and privilege nowhere to hide, and by creating limited fairness in an uncertain world.

At the beginning of the Year of Renyin, winter has indeed passed, and the spring wind is indeed about to blow. Although 2021 brought turning points, please do not forget the suffering still taking place on this land. Do not forget the evils and injustices that once made us angry, resentful, and sick.

I am still myself, still living with a sense of right and wrong, common sense, and reverence. It is only that, under omnipresent pressure from power, loud appeals have turned into irony and veiled sarcasm. May the world still be saved as long as the faint glow has not gone out.

With the continuous iteration of versions, Jellyfin has gradually surpassed Plex and its brother Emby to become the personal media management solution with the largest number of users. This is not only because all its functions are free, but also because its source code is completely open source and has extremely high room for maintenance and expansion.

Regardless of the specific operating system used to run Jellyfin, as long as the system is based on Linux, we can achieve extremely simple and consistent deployment through Docker containers. But compared with the native package, Docker has an obvious shortcoming, that is, it cannot directly call various system resources, and the integrated GPU driver is one of them.

In order for Jellyfin’s Docker container to call the integrated GPU driver in real time (which is often called turning on the hardware decoding), two conditions must be met:

1. Have a integrated GPU that supports video decoding, and the driver of the integrated GPU is running normally;
2. Pass-through the integrated GPU driver to the Docker container and grant the Docker container the permission to call the driver.

Whether the system meets the first condition above can be checked in the following way: first use the ssh tool to connect to the server, ensure that the account logged in to ssh has system management rights, and then enter the following command:

ls /dev/dri

If the returned result is card0 renderD128, then congratulations, the integrated GPU driver is running normally and the hardware system meets the basic conditions for video decoding. The next step is to pass renderD128, the integrated graphics driver, directly to the Docker container.

Why must I use Portainer?

Whether it is Synology, QNAP or Unraid , most NAS systems on the market provide graphical Docker container management tools. But no matter which one of the above, it does not support the pass-through function of the integrated GPU driver. Synology’s Docker suite cannot edit the system resource parameters of the container, and QNAP’s Container Station simply cannot edit the created container.

The “pass-through” mentioned here actually maps the driver file /dev/dri/renderD128 to the same location of the Docker container. This can be achieved very easily using the command line, by adding the following parameters to the pull command of the Jellyfin container:

--device=/dev/dri/renderD128 \

Therefore, to quickly pull and create a Jellyfin container with hardware decoding enabled, just enter the following command in the command line interface of the NAS:

sudo docker run -d --name jellyfin \
-v /share/Container/Jellyfin/config:/config \ # directory for config files on the host
-v /share/Container/Jellyfin/cache:/cache \ # directory for media cache on the host
-v /share/Media/:/media \ # directory for movie files on the host
-p 8096:8096 \ # web UI access port (HTTP)
-p 8920:8920 \ # web UI access port (HTTPS)
--device=/dev/dri/renderD128 \ # map the integrated GPU driver
--restart=always \ # restart policy
jellyfin/jellyfin

However, for many light users, the command line is not only inconvenient to understand, but also cuts off the space for subsequent modification and customization of the container. Therefore, for the vast majority of daily users, I personally strongly recommend using Portainer . It itself is also a program running in a Docker container, but it has powerful Docker management functions and is currently the most complete web-based Docker container management interface on the market.

Therefore, for those users who do not want to use the command line but also want to have more comprehensive control over Docker, Portainer is almost the only choice. With Portainer, even beginners can easily enable hardware decoding for Jellyfin.

Installation and use of Portainer

Since Portainer needs to call the /var/run/docker.sock file to achieve direct management of Docker, Portainer cannot be installed through the Docker management interface provided by QNAP or QNAP, because the above management interfaces do not support mapping of a single file. However, since Portainer requires fewer parameters to be configured and frequent modifications are not required after the container is created, ordinary users can directly copy the following command for installation.

sudo docker run -d --name portainer \
-v /var/run/docker.sock:/var/run/docker.sock \ # key setting
-p 9000:9000 \ # web UI access port
--restart=always \ # restart policy
portainer/portainer

After the container is created, you can access Portainer’s management interface through IP:port. Portainer’s default access port is 9000. The first time you log in, you need to set up an administrator account and password. Because it is used on a single machine, select “local” as the connection mode, and then click “Connect” to connect to docker on the server. After the configuration is completed, click local again and select Container on the left to use Portainer to manage all existing Docker containers on the system.

Install Jellyfin and pass through the integrated GPU driver (enable hard decoding)

Subsequent installation and configuration processes will be completed on the Portainer interface. First click the “Add container” button on the “Containers” tab to add a new container and enter the container creation interface. Just write “Name” casually, and fill in “Image” with Jellyfin’s official Docker Hub image path jellyfin/jellyfin. “Always pull the image” can be turned on, so that when we complete the configuration and create the container, Portainer will automatically pull the latest official image from Docker Hub. Select “Manual network port publishing” under “Network ports configuration” and click “publish a new network port” to create two port mappings, 8096 and 8920, as access ports for the Jellyfin web interface. Then click the “volumes” tab to map the directories within the container. The default directories that Jellyfin needs to map are /media, /cache and /config. Click the “bind” button to select the corresponding directory on the server for mapping. Select “host” for “Network” and “always” for “Restart policy”. The most important thing is that you must click “add device” in “Runtime & Resources” and enter /dev/dri/renderD128 on both sides. This is a key step to enable hard decoding. After the above configuration is completed, you can click the “Deploy the container” button to create the container. If the network environment is good, wait for about half a minute to complete the creation of the container. At this point, we have not only manually configured the Docker container of jellyfin, but also passed the driver file of the integrated GPU directly to the container. Finally, as long as you enter the Jellyfin console, in the “Playback” tab, select the “Hardware Acceleration” type as “Video Acceleration API (VAAPI)”, and fill in /dev/dri/renderD128 in the “VA API Device”, you can call the server’s integrated GPU driver for hardware decoding.

Readers who visit this blog often may have noticed that the Hugo theme I use is a third-party theme that supports automatic switching between light and dark mode: AutoFuji . While reading its documentation today, I discovered that it supports Favicon code. After a few simple steps, my blog finally had its own icon.

Adding Favicon code to a Hugo site is very simple. First, visit this website and upload an image as the source for your site icon. There are many similar favicon generators, and you can choose whichever you prefer. Their basic functions are more or less the same.

After the image is uploaded, the site will automatically move to a configuration page. If you do not have special requirements, the default settings are fine. Click the generate button at the bottom of the page to generate the icons and code.

After generation, click the button shown in the screenshot to download the icon package in different formats, and copy the automatically generated HTML code to your clipboard.

Next, go to the root directory of your Hugo site and extract all files from the downloaded archive into the /static/ folder.

Open /layouts/partials/favicon.html with a text editor, clear the original code, paste in the code you just copied, save, and exit.

Finally, open /themes/current-theme-name/layouts/partials/head.html. The exact file may vary by theme. For example, with the Fuji theme I used, I edited favicon.html in the same directory directly. Find the following line:

<link rel="shortcut icon" href="xxx" />

Replace xxx with favicon.ico, then save and exit.

At this point, the favicon setup is complete. Regenerate the site with the hugo command, and if nothing unexpected happens, you should see the site icon you uploaded.

In everyday use, modem configuration is almost a one-time thing, so the admin page is rarely needed. Still, it is annoying to connect a device directly to the modem by cable or Wi-Fi every time you want to log in. With a few simple settings, you can access the modem admin page at any time while still connected to the OpenWrt router.

The principle is simple: while the existing DHCP server continues working normally, assign the router’s WAN port another IP address on the same subnet as the optical modem. This assumes your router supports multiple WAN interfaces.

Using OpenWrt as an example, go to Network -> Interfaces and click Add new interface.

The interface name can be anything. Set the protocol to Static address, and choose the physical interface currently bound to the WAN port. Do not choose DHCP if possible, because a modem in bridge mode usually disables its own DHCP function and will not automatically assign an IP address to the new interface. You need to use Static address and manually specify the new interface’s IP address.

After these settings, click Submit to enter the detailed configuration page.

The IPv4 address must be on the same subnet as the modem. For example, if the modem’s LAN address, which is also the modem admin address, is 192.168.1.1, then the static IP address of the new interface should be 192.168.1.x. Set the subnet mask to 255.255.255.0, and set the default gateway to the modem’s LAN IP address. For background on IP subnets and subnet masks, you can refer to this article .

After finishing the settings, click Save & Apply.

After the new interface is configured, DNS cache delay may temporarily prevent normal browsing. Restarting the router should fix it. If you previously configured port forwarding, all port forwarding rules will stop working after the new interface is created. Additional firewall settings are needed to restore them.

Go back to the detailed settings page for the new interface. Under Firewall Settings, bind the original WAN firewall zone to the new interface.

Then go to Network -> Firewall -> Port Forwards, and simply save and apply the existing port forwarding rules again.

That should be it. If nothing goes wrong, you can now access the optical modem admin page at any time while the modem remains in bridge mode.

Therefore, I struggled for a long time and finally decided not to buy any stand-alone games in the future. If I am not so busy for a certain period of time (for example, I quit my job and am at home now), I will subscribe to XGP for one month and experience the latest stand-alone games. In fact, Xbox accounts can switch regions at any time. Therefore, we can simply switch the system region of Win10 to Hong Kong to enjoy the preferential price of Hong Kong XGP of HK$79 per month (HK$10 for the first month). At a time when a single-player game can easily cost more than 300 yuan, XGP is indeed a very cost-effective solution. After all, one month is enough for me to finish a medium-sized stand-alone game, and the price of buying this game is far more than 79 Hong Kong dollars. After activating XGP, I started thinking about how to use my “fragmented time” to play games while traveling on business. For example, after getting off work every day during my stay, I only had a MacBook with weak performance when I stayed in the hotel. How can I use the existing equipment to play stand-alone games on XGP in the hotel? In fact, there is only one solution: remote desktop. As long as I turn on the wake-on-LAN function on my PC at home and set a certain remote desktop software to start automatically at boot, I can play games on my home computer anytime, anywhere through wake-on-LAN + remote control.

Although the idea is very simple, it really took me a lot of effort to find suitable remote desktop software. After careful searching, I found a remote desktop software called Parsec . It not only supports both Windows and macOS dual platforms, but is also optimized for remote gaming. Not only that, Parsec also supports Hevc encoding . As long as the client device supports Hevc decoding, it can greatly reduce the volume of streaming data, reduce the consumption of network bandwidth and traffic, and improve the remote gaming experience.

The use of Parsec is very simple. Just go to the official website to register an account and download and install the Parsec client on the server (device used to run the game) and client (device used for remote control). After installing and logging in to the software on both devices at the same time, the software interface should look like this: At this point, just click the Connect button on the corresponding device to establish a remote connection. But in order to improve our gaming experience, some simple settings need to be made before official use. Click the gear icon on the left to enter the settings interface, and turn on the “Hardware Decoding” and “Hevc Encoding” functions of the client device. After the connection is successful, the software will automatically mute the controlled device and transfer all system sounds to the controlled device for playback. This detail is very user-friendly. After testing, in a local area network (gigabit bandwidth) environment, the two devices can basically achieve zero-latency remote control. However, in a wide area network environment, due to bandwidth and delay limitations, the remote control is slightly delayed and stuck, but it can still satisfy some games that do not have such high operational requirements. For example, I am currently completing “Walker on the Wrong Road”. This is a “HD Mosaic” game, and all battles are turn-based, making it ideal for remote play. Since macOS natively supports the Xbox and Switch Pro controllers, and Parsec can also directly recognize all the buttons of the above two controllers, during remote gaming, you can directly control the server-side game by connecting the controller to the client device. When the network condition is good, the experience of remote gaming is almost the same as that of local gaming.

For that purpose, I bought two Snail Star machines, a B Dual and a C. The B Dual became a soft router, while the C was used for Xpenology. A year later, work has left me with little time to tinker, and for data safety and convenience I bought a QNAP NAS earlier this year. As the saying goes, after enough Xpenology tinkering, you eventually move to real Synology. But QNAP is simply much better value for money, so I shamelessly defected.

Yesterday, on a whim, I wanted to flash the Snail Star B Dual that had been gathering dust in the corner into an Xpenology machine, to use as cold backup storage for important data. It would stay powered off most of the time and only be turned on for backup. Since my B Dual had always been used as a soft router, I had never installed Xpenology on it. But because Snail Star machines have similar hardware, I naively assumed that the existing Xpenology boot USB from the C machine would work directly.

Of course, I ran into trouble.

During the new system installation, the progress would always reach 56% and then throw error 13: “System installation failed. The file may be corrupted (13).” To solve it, I tried many methods, including formatting all drives, including the SSD, and switching between different official and unofficial DSM installation packages. None of them worked. Error 13 remained.

In the end, with advice from someone in a Telegram group, I finally solved it. The cause was simple: the motherboard BIOS settings were wrong. Connect a keyboard and monitor, enter the BIOS during boot, usually by pressing DEL when the motherboard logo appears, then go to Advanced -> Miscellaneous Configuration -> OS Selection and change Win 7 to Win 8.x.

After half a day of work, the solution turned out to be this simple. I am recording it here so later beginners do not waste time the way I did. This is not really much of a tutorial, just a note.

I don’t know what kind of mood I am writing this travel note at this time, because it is not originally a travel note - how can returning to my hometown be considered a trip? But when I finally stood in the east square of Wuhu Station at one o’clock in the morning, I realized clearly: I was finally home.

It all started a week ago. On a gloomy afternoon, I was walking alone on the bamboo-shaded road of the Chengdu Giant Panda Base, thinking aimlessly - about work, about marriage, and even about some insignificant things. Giant pandas are not that attractive to me. After all, they are all similar-looking creatures. I will get bored after looking at them for a while and taking a few photos. So this is a great time to fill your brain with whatever it is.

The result of this thinking was the decision to resign. Although in terms of career development prospects alone, the current job is very good. But its low starting salary and the nature of long-term business trips forced me to face the issue of “work-family balance”. If I choose to return to a provincial capital city near my hometown, there will be a job waiting for me with a higher starting salary and no need to travel. So after a fierce ideological struggle, I came to the conclusion: The so-called “development prospects” are all relative. Even if I return to my hometown, it does not mean that there are no development prospects at all. But compared with life itself, the “prospects” of the current job are not worth my continued pursuit. If the ultimate goal of working hard to make money is to live a better life, then when you have absolutely no other choice, you should not give up life itself for the sake of making money. This is putting the cart before the horse.

Therefore, I decided to return to Shenzhen from Chongqing on April 15. After completing the final work handover procedures, I flew back to my hometown of Anhui via Zhuhai. As for the reason for passing through Zhuhai, it is entirely because the final return ticket cannot be reimbursed. In order to save money, I purchased the relatively cheap flight from Zhuhai to Hefei. Most of the time before (when the company reimbursed the air tickets), I flew directly from Shenzhen to Nanjing, and the latter was the fastest route.

start

Just do it. The habit of “minimalist living” that I have developed in my daily life is showing its power at this time - all the personal belongings I have in my two residences in Chongqing and Shenzhen are only the size of a 20-inch suitcase and a backpack. Therefore, I was able to clear two residences and return to my hometown over a distance of more than 3,000 kilometers in just one and a half days.

After completing the necessary procedures, it was already ten o’clock in the morning. I walked out of the company building with my bag on my back and took a taxi back to my apartment. Before getting in the car, I took what might be the last photo of the company building behind me. Our apartment is a four-room dormitory provided free of charge by the company for interns. It is about half an hour’s drive from the company (it takes one hour to get there by bus). After arriving at the apartment, I quickly went upstairs to take off my suitcase and went through the deposit refund procedure at the front desk (I paid a 100 yuan deposit when I checked into the dormitory). Then walk to the nearby subway station, change once, and arrive at the “Shekou Port” station. After leaving the station, we walked for about 20 minutes and finally arrived at the first stop of our trip back home - Shekou Cruise Center. This is a terminal with unique interior and exterior decoration. The internal structure is very similar to a high-speed rail station or an airport: the first floor is the entrance, and the second floor and above are dining or rest areas. The way to get tickets is also very simple. Just put the ID card corresponding to the ID number registered when purchasing the ticket on the self-service machine near the entrance. The flight I took was the passenger ship Xunlong from Shekou Port to Hengqin Port. There are two types of positions: ordinary and first-class, and the price difference is only thirty yuan. First class not only has fewer passengers, but the seats are more comfortable and the view is better. After boarding the ship, I found a very interesting sign with the words “China Merchants Group, founded in 1872”, which instantly gave me the feeling of dreaming back to the Qing Dynasty. The voyage passed the Hong Kong-Zhuhai-Macau Bridge and the Macau Friendship Bridge, and passed through the narrow channel between Zhuhai and Macau. During this period, the mobile phone signal drifted to Macau, and I also received a warning text message from the customs. Although just a few minutes were not enough to turn my itinerary code into red, this short “exit” still made me full of emotions. After more than an hour of sailing, the passenger ship docked steadily at Hengqin Port, Zhuhai. I have heard people talk about Zhuhai’s beautiful environment and pure air a long time ago, and this time I finally felt it myself.

twists and turns

But just as I walked out of the beautiful Hengqin Pier in a happy mood, I received a text message that the flight was delayed for three hours. In January of this year, news of HNA’s bankruptcy and reorganization officially came out. At that time, I had the emotion of “watching him build a tall building, watching his building collapse.” But when the flight was delayed by three hours, and the airline happened to be Hainan Airlines, I felt again at a loss as when “the dust of the times falls on one’s head”. Since time suddenly became extremely abundant, I slowed down my pace and took a bus to the airport bus station while enjoying the scenery along the way in Zhuhai. The nearest airport bus station to Hengqin Port is at Holiday Inn Hengqin. This is a hotel decorated to look like a fairy tale castle. Although I have not stayed in this hotel, the external environment alone feels very suitable for staying on vacation. After waiting on the first floor of the hotel for nearly forty minutes, the airport bus finally arrived. On the way to the airport, the bus will stop briefly at the University of Macau Hengqin Campus. This university is across the sea from Macau. Although it is located in Zhuhai, it is administratively under the jurisdiction of Macau. No matter from any aspect, this can be regarded as a model of “one country, two systems”. So during the second half of the journey to the airport, I walked with a group of students from the University of Macau. Although these people are still students, they have already fallen into the bad social habit of “watching videos outside on the bus.”

After arriving at Zhuhai Jinwan Airport, I waited for more than two hours in KFC and the terminal with nothing to do. During the broadcast, a slightly apologetic statement was made that dinner would be provided to all HNA passengers who had been delayed. But when I saw the middle-aged man sitting next to me in the terminal returning angrily with a box of hot lunch boxes, I gave up on this “free dinner.” In comparison, the “Hainan Special Chicken Noodles” on the plane attracted me more.

At 7:30 in the evening, the radio finally informed us that we were ready to board the plane. So I picked up my suitcase again and stood in a long queue, waiting to board the flight that was supposed to take off three hours ago.

#End

Except for Shanghai Hongqiao Airport, almost all the airports in the cities I have visited are located in remote suburbs. This may be in line with certain economic principles, but it actually goes against the convenience of passengers. Perhaps because of the consideration of convenience, Hefei Xinqiao Airport has set up a special city shuttle bus to regularly transport passengers to the train station and other city addresses. After the plane landed slowly at 9:30 pm, I followed the crowd and hurried to the city shuttle boarding point outside the arrivals hall of the airport. I spent fifteen yuan to buy a ticket to Hefei Railway Station. The shuttle bus didn’t leave “on time” until ten o’clock, and it didn’t arrive until 11:08, which was still more than 200 meters away from Hefei Railway Station.

Yes, you heard it right. The shuttle bus destined for Hefei Railway Station did not actually enter Hefei Railway Station, but dropped us off far away from the train station. The last train that night departed at 11:21, which meant that within thirteen minutes, I had to drag my suitcase and backpack over a distance of more than 200 meters, go through the security check, go upstairs, find the correct platform and squeeze into the train. Although the above process was very difficult and tiring, I managed to get on the train just one second before the train door closed.

Since it was too late, I could only take the green car home. So I stayed for another hour and a half in the foul-smelling green van. Finally, I finally returned to Wuhu at one o’clock in the morning.

Two years ago, I came across a cross-platform software called Notion . I was very satisfied with both its functions and interface, but its price was not cheap. After all, I am not a professional creator who relies on content, and I was not willing to pay monthly for a note-taking software. In addition, Notion still cannot achieve convenient multi-end synchronization while firmly controlling content data, which is also a big regret. Until today, I accidentally learned about a GitHub open source project called Trilium through the introduction of Minority article , which almost perfectly meets all my needs. First of all, it is an open source project that supports self-built note servers, which allows me to achieve multi-end synchronization while firmly controlling the control of notes; secondly, its interface is simple and very lightweight, and you can even discard the client and fully realize web access; finally, it is completely free, which is very important.

Since buying QNAP (https://www.qnap.com/zh-cn/ ) NAS, I have become more and more inclined to save all kinds of my data on the NAS, and then use various open source software to achieve multi-end synchronization. This not only ensures data security and personal privacy, but also allows you to conveniently manage your files and data. I think it is worth it to have complete control over personal data at a cost of several thousand yuan and a small electricity bill. Therefore, after realizing that Trilium provided open source server software, I immediately started setting up a local server.

Trilium’s official documentation provides specific methods for installing Trilium Server through Docker . However, since the document is in English and only provides the SSH command installation method, it may be difficult for some novices to read it. Therefore, this article will briefly describe the installation method of Trilium Server in a graphical manner.

First, install the Docker suite (called Container Station in QNAP’s QTS) on your NAS and open it. Enter “Create” and search for Trilium in the search box, find zadam/trilium, and click “Install” on the right. In the pop-up creation window, click “Advanced Settings” and first set Trilium’s port forwarding in the “Network” tab. Trilium’s default web interface default port is 8080, so the Container’s port must be written as 8080, and the mapped host port can be filled in according to your own needs. For the convenience of memory, I prefer to have consistent settings for the internal and external ports, that is, the host port is also set to 8080, but if your NAS’s 8080 port is already occupied by other programs, please fill in other ports. Next, in the Shared Folders tab, mount a shared folder in the container to Trilium. The mounting path in the container must be written as /trilium-data, and the local shared folder can be selected according to your own needs. Note that the permissions for mounting the shared folder must be both read and write. After the above settings are completed, click the “Create” button, and the system will automatically download the image file and install the container according to your configuration. Once the container is installed, you can access Trilium’s web interface by entering the NAS IP/port in your browser. When using Trilium for the first time, you need to perform some simple initialization settings, such as creating a username and password. Although the interface is only in English, it is very simple and I won’t go into details here.

At this point, we have completed setting up our own note server. Regarding the specific usage of Trilium, you can explore or search by yourself. Generally speaking, the threshold for using this tool is not high. This article of mine is written in Trilium. Trilium supports Markdown syntax, so there is almost no barrier to use for me. In addition, Trilium’s web interface supports mobile layout. As long as DDNS and router port mapping are done, you can access your notes anywhere and anytime, whether using a computer or mobile phone.

As usual, when I write this kind of half-coherent year-end summary, I put on headphones and loop a song that can make me feel either sentimental or excited. This year, what I have kept listening to is still Li Zhi’s unplugged version of “Rehe” from his 2018 New Year’s Eve concert. It is odd: the song is called “Rehe,” but it is really about Nanjing. Just as when I was in Shanghai, I passed Shunyi Road every day but never once went to Beijing.

I do not know when Nanjing became a synonym for “hometown” to me. Perhaps it is because every time I went home for a holiday, I first flew to Nanjing Lukou Airport and then took a train back to Wuhu. Perhaps it is because whenever I introduced my hometown to someone, I would unconsciously say, “My hometown is Wuhu, Anhui, right next to Nanjing.” Or perhaps it is because whenever I mention “China,” I think of Nanjing.

No one who did not graduate the same year as me can really know how hard it was to find a job in China after Covid. I once badly wanted to settle in Shanghai, but the brutal job search left me so heartbroken that when I boarded the plane to Shenzhen, I felt no attachment at all and did not look back. Of course, I have no particular opinion about the stereotypical “Shanghainese,” and I do not think Shanghai is especially hard to integrate into. I simply feel that maybe a place like Shenzhen, with so little tradition, is better suited for my survival. After all, I dislike history and hate tradition.

Grandall is a good law firm, because it took me in when I was most helpless and gave me a platform good enough to hone my skills. I had wanted wholeheartedly to do litigation, but by a twist of fate I stepped onto the path of non-litigation legal work. If I give up the ideal of helping the poor and the wronged, and think only of living a decent life, then law is just a craft for making a living. So I gave up illusions long ago. From the moment I arrived in this cultural desert in the south, backpack on my shoulders and suitcase in hand, youth had already gone with the wind.

One year ago today, I had a fever of 40 degrees and was shivering at a Xie Chunhua concert. At the same time, Li Wenliang sent the WeChat message that would enter human history. Then the whistle sounded, and the whole world changed. I vaguely remember that the theme of Xie Chunhua’s concert was “2020, please be kinder to me.” Well, it was fairly kind to me after all. At least in its final two months, my life showed a small turn for the better.

Late at night, I often curse in my heart the fathers who left our generation such a mess. This country has placed so many burdens on its “successors” that, even without abortion or sterilization, the number of newborns is falling year by year. That may hurt Durex’s share price. But maybe that is fine. I have never liked monopoly capital, if Durex counts as a monopoly. Still, what happens next? I cannot see a way out. Perhaps for an individual, escaping Sodom is the better plan. Unfortunately, Covid arrived just then and cut in half the last false friendly tie between countries.

Tomorrow, I will leave Banan, ride the light rail for two hours to Yubei, and fly home. Of course, Wuhu has no airport. My destination is still Nanjing. But for Nanjing, my hometown lies behind me, by the riverbank, in Quanjiao County, Anhui.

December 31, 2020, Banan, Chongqing

This afternoon, I dragged a large suitcase and a big package of deliveries to the gate on Guangfu West Road. The package contained replacement bedding. The reason I had to carry it around myself was that the closed-campus policy does not allow couriers to enter, forcing me to pick it up from the Cainiao station and bring it back to school.

At the gate, a clumsy security guard told us to line up for “identity verification.” The cursed facial-recognition system showed the same dead expression no matter who stood in front of it: “Recognition failed. Please swipe card and try again.” So we had to register on paper one by one. I later learned that the return-to-campus verification system apparently had not been loaded with any student information at all. In other words, the machine that kept repeating “Recognition failed. Please swipe card and try again” was nothing but a decoration. Every student waiting for “identity verification” had to register manually.

Perhaps my ten-digit student number was too complicated. The security guard acting on orders simply could not find my information in the thick student roster. So, while several girls behind me dragged suitcases and waited anxiously, I had to search the roster myself, fill out the form myself, pass through a “temperature check room” with no staff inside, and finally enter the campus I had not seen in a long time, smoothly and quickly.

After settling in, I packed up the bedding that had lain alone for eight months during the pandemic and mailed it home together with a Mi Band 3. Since I had prepared a brand-new set of bedding for this return, the old, possibly moldy “lonely bedding” became extra stuff that had to be shipped away. I sent the dead Mi Band 3 back too because 33 wanted to use it as her alarm clock and phone notification device, exactly the way I had used it.

Since becoming homeroom teacher of the international class at Beijing No. 11 School, her habit of being unreachable by phone no matter how urgent the matter seems to have improved. Apparently what really makes a person mature is not gentle persuasion from a loved one, but a beating from society. I am quite pleased by this small change in her.

I did not expect registration at this magical school to close at 4 p.m. today. So after calmly enjoying a surprisingly good dinner at the Hexi canteen and walking to the check-in machine near the entrance of Building 40, which had been standing there dumbly waiting for people to swipe cards before 4 p.m., I found that the machine had disappeared. Soon after, the class monitor sent a notice: “Registration closes at 4 p.m. on the 13th. Students on the following list, including me of course, did not register in time. Please complete supplementary registration tomorrow at the terminal on the first floor of Building 40,” which was exactly where I was standing.

At night, it suddenly rained heavily during my “cross-district shower.” I should explain that I am not adding “cross-district” before “shower” to be mysterious. At this magical school, almost all students living east of the river, except those in Building 1 who have their own bathrooms, must cross Suzhou Creek to shower in the public bathhouse on the west side. As everyone knows, Suzhou Creek is the boundary between Putuo District and Changning District. So every night’s shower is, in the strictest sense, a cross-district operation.

Considering Shanghai’s status as a directly administered municipality, what we cross while showering is actually two city-level administrative units. You can imagine our mood when a downpour hits during this cross-district shower. Especially when we saw two sets of bedding by the roadside completely soaked by the rain. Regrettably, their owners seemed to have forgotten the basic common sense that bedding should be brought in before dark. Our good mood became even better.

Today, a [news] about Huawei suddenly spread on the Internet (https://tech.163.com/20/0804/13/FJ6L182N00097U7S.html ). “Kechuangban Daily” reported that Huawei has launched the “Nanniwan” project to accelerate the development of its laptops, smart TVs and other products, aiming to avoid products containing American technology. This marks that under increasingly severe external pressure, Huawei has to shift its attention away from areas with higher technology density such as 5g and chips, and instead invest in areas with lower technology density such as consumer electronics. Because compared to the former, investment in consumer electronics can not only circumvent technological blockades and sanctions from Western countries, but also enable Huawei to obtain higher sales profits with less research and development costs. As a company with shareholders at the top and employees at the bottom, this strategic shift is completely in line with Huawei’s interests and can be said to achieve multiple goals with one stone.

But what is very regrettable is that as a company famous for its high technology, Huawei, which was once regarded as the “national pride” by many patriots, cannot escape the fate of “involution”. Personally, I believe that Huawei, which was forced to launch the “Nanniwan” project, and ByteDance, which was forced to sell Tiktok, together constitute the epitome of the embarrassing situation of my country’s national enterprises in this era. They also have extraordinary innovation capabilities, are also trying to go out of China and into the world, and they once truly had world-class influence. However, under the influence of a series of untimely strategies or policies by the government, they had to give up their martial arts skills, turn their long-term vision of targeting the international market to the domestic market, and become one of the participants in the domestic competition that has been fought like the Red Sea**.

Some people will blame the embarrassing situation of Huawei and ByteDance on the exclusion and suppression of Western countries led by the United States. They believe that in order to maintain its hegemony, the United States has to use various means to suppress China’s outstanding companies. Others blame the Chinese government’s strategic misjudgments and policy mistakes for the unfavorable situation of Chinese enterprises. They believe that the government’s reduced credibility and a series of excessive diplomatic words and deeds are the real reasons that hinder national enterprises from “going global” and plunge Chinese society into involution. No matter which view you take, there is no denying the fact that almost all social entities, including national enterprises, have inevitably stepped out of the golden age of China’s development. What follows will be a “cold winter” that will not be too short.

The involution crisis of Chinese society

The concept of “involution” was mentioned earlier. The so-called involution refers to the phenomenon that a certain society stagnates after developing to a certain stage, and extremely fierce but meaningless competition occurs among its internal members, resulting in the inability of the society as a whole to move to a more advanced stage. Although it is still doubtful whether the development of human society must follow the law of “from lower to higher”, it is undeniable that, as a purely empirical induction, the phenomenon of involution does occur from time to time in human history. For example, the mainstream view in academic circles believes that without the intervention of Western civilization, the Qing Empire would not have been able to develop modern capitalism by relying on its own strength alone, nor would it have been able to modernize politically or ideologically. It can be said that compared with Western European countries, China in the 19th century or even earlier had actually fallen into the quagmire of involution.Similar to the idea of ​​involution, there is also the concept of the so-called “middle-income trap”. It refers to a situation where a country has reached a certain level of income due to certain advantages, but remains at that economic level and cannot develop further**. So far, countries recognized by the world as having fallen into the middle-income trap include Brazil and South Africa. They have all experienced a period of rapid growth, but as labor costs continue to increase, these countries have lost their original competitive advantages. At the same time, industrial transformation and technological progress did not arrive in time. Therefore, after these countries reached the middle-income level, they fell into a long period of stagnation until today.

Chinese society is currently on the verge of involution or the middle-income trap. With the successive failures of institutional reform and industrial transformation, China’s economic development has gradually lost momentum. Coupled with the impact of many “black swan” events such as the COVID-19 epidemic and nationwide floods, it is no longer possible to return to the past high-speed growth state. Under such circumstances, large-scale salary cuts and even unemployment are inevitable. The extension of working hours and the reduction of employee benefits are nothing more than a few waves in this historical trend. A more turbulent reality is still to come in the near future.

Since 2018, the anxiety permeating the urban middle class has been increasing day by day. The huge tension between sluggish income growth and rising housing prices is eroding the lives of the middle class. Especially the younger generation who have just entered society are already facing huge competitive pressure due to excessive enrollment expansion in colleges and universities and the disconnect between the teaching system and social needs. The overall deterioration of the economic situation has made the already fierce competition even more severe. In recent years, the trend of candidates for non-professional skills positions becoming more highly educated has become increasingly apparent. Jobs that only required a college degree to get an interview ten years ago now require a bachelor’s degree or above as a stepping stone. This phenomenon is not a manifestation of the increase in the popularity of higher education in our country, but a manifestation of social involution. In an involutional society, individual competition that was supposed to promote the overall development of society has become meaningless internal friction.

Causes and solutions for involution

Fundamentally speaking, the reason why a society will become involution is because its own development model is too radical and its industrial structure lacks stamina, not because of the exploitation or ulterior motives of so-called developed countries. A famous conspiracy theory related to the latter attribution method believes that the reason why Japan quickly slid from the rapid growth stage in the 1980s to collapse and decline, leading to the “lost 30 years (1990-2020)”, is because it signed the “Plaza Accord” with Western countries headed by the United States. This agreement was considered by many Chinese people as evidence that the United States suppressed the development of Japan, then the world’s second largest economy, in order to maintain its world hegemony.But the truth is not that simple. The Plaza Accord was originally intended to devalue the U.S. dollar in order to promote U.S. product exports. However, with the help of a series of fiscal and monetary policies by Japan’s Ministry of Finance, the yen appreciated rapidly. A large amount of hot money poured into the Japanese market, causing Japan’s stock market and housing prices to soar since the signing of the Agreement in 1985 until the bubble burst in the early 1990s. In this process, Japan’s Ministry of Finance’s decision-making errors and improper handling were the real reasons for the expansion and bursting of the bubble. The Plaza Accord, which many Chinese people talk about, was at best a trigger. Therefore, it is useless to blame the stagnation or decline of a country’s economy on the suppression of external forces. To avoid the decline and involution of society as a whole, we must face the shortcomings of our own development model, reflect on policy mistakes and lessons, and constantly seek industrial transformation methods that suit our national conditions.

In the mainstream political theory of modernization, the government should assume the function of safeguarding the development of individuals and enterprises. As for the direction and path of development, even if it does not appear in the economic blueprint of public opinion organs (such as Congress), it should be left to the people themselves to decide. Empty plans without scrutiny will only become a shackles for the development of individuals and enterprises, restricting their own progress. As for the implementation of “wolf warrior diplomacy” to arouse the resentment of the international community and then backfire on one’s own national enterprises, it is far from the responsibilities of a modern government. If we ignore this and fail to examine any mistakes, no matter how many “strategies” or “initiatives” we launch to increase production capacity, it will not help. The arrival of involution will not be delayed by the rejection of personal will, and the fate of the Chinese people must be in their own hands.

Critics believe that both plagues and floods are natural disasters that cannot be controlled by humans. Everyone is equal before natural disasters, and disasters and losses are inevitable. Those refugees who are financially bankrupt or homeless can only say that they are unlucky and have no one to blame. Besides, the government has done its best to fight floods and provide disaster relief. It has worked very hard. Why do you blame it?

Mencius had already given a powerful response to this voice more than two thousand years ago. There is a famous exposition in “Mencius: King Hui of Liang”, which is considered by later generations to be the basis of Mencius’ thought of “benevolent government”.

King Hui of Liang said: “I only care about my country with all my heart and ears. If there is trouble in the river, move the people to the east of the river, and move the millet to the river. The same is true for the trouble in the east of the river. If you look at the government of neighboring countries, you can’t compare with the intentions of the few. If the people of the neighboring countries don’t increase the number, and the people of the neighbors don’t increase the number, why not?”

King Hui of Liang said [to Mencius]: “I have put all my efforts into this country. When there was a famine in Hanoi, I moved the people there to the east of the river, and then transported the grain from the east of the river to Hanoi. I will do the same when there is a disaster in the east of the river. I have also inspected the internal affairs of neighboring countries, and none of them can be as attentive as me. But the people of those countries have not decreased, and my people have not increased. What is the reason?

There is a background that needs to be explained here. ** Mencius, as an advocate of the idea of ​​benevolent government, would tell him every time he met a monarch: A country that implements benevolent government will continue to attract people from other countries to settle there; a country that does not implement benevolent government will not be able to retain people, and the people there will vote with their feet and continue to immigrate to countries that implement benevolent government**. In this case, since the population is the foundation of a country’s prosperity, “benevolent government” is an excellent way to make the country prosperous and ultimately make the country rich and powerful.

Mencius tried to use this set of rhetoric to induce the monarchs of various countries to implement benevolent policies driven by the dream of a great nation. Because in Mencius’ theory, benevolent government is a necessary condition for a strong country. The reason why King Hui of Liang asked the question mentioned above was precisely because he heard Mencius’s rhetoric about benevolent government. We don’t know whether King Hui of Liang asked the question sincerely or deliberately made things difficult for Mencius. But in any case, this passage from King Hui of Liang is a powerful challenge to Mencius’ theory of benevolent government. So how did Mencius respond to such a challenge?

Mencius said to him: “The king likes war, please use the metaphor of war. After filling up the drum, the weapon was connected, abandoning the armor and dragging the soldiers away. It may take a hundred steps and then stop, or it may take fifty steps and then stop. What if you take fifty steps and laugh at a hundred steps? Said: “No; if it is not straight for a hundred paces, it is also walking.” “If the king knows this,” he said, “there is no hope that the people will be more numerous than those of neighboring countries.” “Mencius replied: “Your Majesty, you like to fight, so let me use war as an analogy. If some people abandon their armor and drag their weapons and run away at the beginning of the war. Some people run a hundred steps before stopping, and some people stop after running fifty steps. Under such circumstances, can those who ran fifty steps laugh at those who ran a hundred steps?” King Hui of Liang said: “Of course not, although he did not run to one hundred steps. A hundred steps, but this is also an escape. “Isn’t this a fool’s errand?” Yes, that’s right! The idiom “laughing at fifty steps and laughing at a hundred steps” comes from here.

After hearing King Hui of Liang’s answer, Mencius secretly rejoiced, thinking that you had finally fallen into my trap. Mencius said: “Since your Majesty understands this truth, then stop hoping that your people will be more numerous than those of your neighboring countries.” Next, Mencius used a long and rigorous discussion to demonstrate why King Hui of Liang tried his best to provide disaster relief, but he was still the same as those countries that did not implement benevolent governance, unable to obtain the dividends of benevolent governance. King Hui of Liang laughed at the lack of benevolent government in other countries, but he was actually “laughing at fifty steps and laughing at a hundred steps”. His policies were not essentially different from those of other countries.

Grain, fish and turtles cannot be eaten, and wood cannot be used. This is to make the people live and die without regret. Maintaining one’s health and losing one’s life without regrets is the beginning of the king’s way.

There is so much food, fish and meat that they can’t eat it all, and there is so much wood that they can’t use it up. This makes the people have no dissatisfaction with life, death and burial. The people no longer had any dissatisfaction with life, care, death, and burial, and the royal way began.

If you don’t take away a hundred acres of land, then a family of several people will not be hungry. I sincerely follow the teachings of Xiangxu⒂, apply the meaning of filial piety and brotherhood, and award the white ones to live up to the road. Those who are seventy years old can wear silk and eat meat, and the people are neither hungry nor cold. However, there is no king who is not king.

If a family has hundreds of acres of arable land and does not hinder their production, then the family can have enough to eat. If you run some good schools and educate them in the principles of filial piety and brotherhood, then the gray-haired old people will no longer have to carry heavy loads on their backs. Even the elderly over seventy years old have clothes to wear and meat to eat, and the people of Li are neither hungry nor cold. It is impossible for such a country not to make the world submit.

A dog eats human food but does not know how to check it; when a person dies, he says, “It’s not me, it’s Sui.” ’ How is this different from stabbing someone and killing them, saying, ‘It’s not me, it’s a soldier. ’ When the king was innocent, all the people in the world were here.

[This is not the case now] The pigs and dogs of the rich eat the people’s food without checking or stopping it. In ordinary years, there are corpses of people who died of starvation on the road, but they never thought that the granary should be opened for rescue. When he kills someone, he says, “It’s not my fault, it’s just a bad year.” ’ This statement is equivalent to stabbing someone to death with a knife, but saying, I didn’t kill the person, but a weapon. Your Majesty, if you do not shift the responsibility to natural disasters [but carry out fundamental reforms to the system], then people from other countries will naturally come to seek refuge.

Compared with remedial measures after natural disasters, Mencius obviously paid more attention to the overall welfare of society. As long as the government no longer imposes excessive taxes and uses heavy taxes and rising housing prices to drain the people’s economy, then even if plagues and floods come, the people themselves will have a strong ability to resist and will not go bankrupt or cut off their supply as soon as they lose their jobs. Therefore, in Mencius’ view, free markets and social welfare are safety nets that help people resist natural disasters. Only with these can it be called the true “kingly way”, attract the people of other countries to yearn for it, and finally make the world return to its heart. And those who readily shift the blame to natural disasters, no matter how hard they try to provide disaster relief and rescue operations, are still far from the right path. These people laugh at other countries, just like taking fifty steps to laugh at a hundred steps.

Similar to the traditional audio and video industry, the piracy era of Chinese video games has ended with the end of the physical era**. In the physical era when audio and video products are still distributed in physical discs or tapes, a country with lax enforcement of intellectual property rights will inevitably see widespread piracy. A pirated disc like this costs 2 yuan a piece, and there is almost no technical threshold for production. However, with the popularization of the Internet, digital copyright has gradually replaced physical channels and become the most important distribution method for audio and video products. People’s usage habits of audio-visual products have also gradually changed during this process. Traditional DVD players and tape players have been gradually eliminated, and mobile phones, computers, and a series of portable digital media players have become mainstream. By this time, physical pirated discs were on their way out.

The Tao is one foot high and the devil is one foot high. Early online digital distribution, due to many limitations of network bandwidth and traffic, could only be carried out in the form of digital copies. This provides new opportunities for piracy. Although the traditional physical piracy industry has declined at this time, because digital copies are easy to copy and spread, the spread of piracy in the form of BT and eDonkey has become increasingly rampant. Even though publishers are racking their brains to technically protect digital copy services, such as encrypting the file format of digital copies, or requiring buyers to use their own playback software for playback, etc. But these efforts were in vain. Cracking or reverse engineering has been the main technical weapon of online piracy channels for a long time.

Today, digital streaming services, or online streaming services, have brought this dispute to a complete end**. Different from the previous methods of selling or distributing through downloading or copying, digital streaming services provide consumers with a convenient experience of clicking and playing without downloading. For example, Spotify and Netflix, although the latter also started out as a physical disc rental business, their main businesses today are subscription-based digital streaming services. The improvement of network infrastructure and the reduction of traffic rates have made it possible to enjoy streaming services through the network anytime and anywhere. In this tug-of-war over intellectual property rights, technological progress has undoubtedly given copyright owners a good chance of victory.

Electronic games have also experienced a similar development process, but compared to the traditional audio and video industry, games occupy larger data capacity, and their interactive consumption methods also require more specific environments and hardware. Therefore, digital copy services represented by Steam became popular later than the music or movie industry. Nowadays, as long as we connect a network cable, we can download digital games at high speed without purchasing physical game discs. Those “tomato plates” and “banana plates” full of memories have gradually appeared on the stage of history.As I said before, the consumption method of video games is interactive, which has extremely high requirements on the timeliness of operation and feedback. This is the real reason why the game industry has been slow to move from the digital copy era to the streaming era. The so-called digital streaming service of electronic games refers to a new consumption method in which players do not need to download game data locally, but only accept the game screen and send operation instructions through the network to complete the playing process. It is also called “cloud gaming” by some people because game data will always be stored on the service provider’s cloud server.

In 2019, Google launched its game streaming service Stadia at its annual game developers conference, GDC 2019. Google said that through Stadia, players do not need to download any game data locally, and can play the latest video games with 4K60 frames on devices on different platforms through the Chrome browser. This is what digital streaming services like Netflix have achieved in the field of video games.

At present, it seems that the only obstacle facing ** game streaming services is network latency**. When we usually play online games, a delay of about 100ms can bring an excellent gaming experience. But the network delay here only occurs when we interact with other players. In other words, there is no delay problem for the characters controlled by our players. Because all the game resources we see have been downloaded locally in advance. Game streaming is completely different. It requires our network to not only transmit a large amount of game resource data in real time, but also to be able to transmit our control instructions back to the cloud in a timely manner, and then the cloud calculates the feedback corresponding to our control instructions and the game screens corresponding to these feedbacks. This entire process must be completed within 10ms so that players will not feel obvious operational lag.

Traditional optical fiber networks or cellular mobile networks are of course unable to meet the stringent network latency requirements of game streaming. But in the not-too-distant future, with the popularization of 5G standards, high-bandwidth, low-latency networks are almost within sight. With the support of these new technologies, game streaming services that people once thought were impossible will actually come to people.

On June 12, Sony finally announced PlayStation’s next-generation game console: PS5. Microsoft also announced details of its next-generation console, Xbox Series X, a few months ago. Compared with the previous generation, the performance improvement of these two new consoles is actually very limited, far less than the progress from PS2 to PS3. This is why these two new consoles caused controversy as soon as they were announced. As the biggest highlight of PS5, the high-speed solid-state drive is derided by many people as a gimmick.

It is foreseeable that as the price of PC hardware continues to decrease and game streaming services become more popular in the future, the living space of game consoles will become smaller and smaller**. Video games will always exist, but the carrier carrying them will shift from physical to online. Just like we no longer need to buy special MP3 players to listen to music, one day we will no longer need special game consoles. PS5 may be the last generation, game consoles will eventually die, and the trend of game streaming is unstoppable.I am actually a loyal Sony and Nintendo player, and console games have brought me a lot of happy times. Just like when I was in middle school, I took out my Sony music player and put on my headphones to listen to Pink Floyd during my lazy lunch break. It will eventually become a beautiful past along with my youth.

My name is Gu Yue. Thank you for listening to “Ge Wu Zhi”. I will try my best to learn more about history and society in this program. If you like this episode, please subscribe to my channel, or give my video a like, and leave your thoughts in the comment area. See you next time.

The main reason why players are so disappointed and even angry about “The Last of Us 2” is the game’s script. As the male protagonist of the previous generation and the most important controllable character in the previous generation, Joel got the benefit of the doubt in the prologue of this game. Just imagine, a game character with whom you have spent dozens of hours, a tough guy father who was portrayed extremely plump in the previous generation story, was brutally murdered by a woman you didn’t know at all with a golf club in less than 2 hours after the game started. And just ten minutes before this woman tortured Joel, she was saved by Joel from a group of zombies. This is truly a textbook-level “Farmer and Snake” story.

After that, the heroine Ellie and her little girlfriend embarked on the long road of “avenging their father”. Do you think this is over? Do you think the next story is about how the heroine overcame all kinds of difficulties and dangers, finally came to Seattle, killed her enemies with her own hands, and then left in style, living a life of poverty and determination in the apocalypse? You are still too simple! The most disgusting thing about the script of this game is that it not only forces you to accept the fact that the protagonist of the previous generation was killed at the beginning, but also forces you to personally control the woman who will take revenge on Jorn, forcing you to experience her mental journey. In the end, when Ellie finally went through all kinds of hardships and came to the enemy who killed her father, after a fierce hand-to-hand fight, Ellie actually let her go! Yes, when I watched the boat of the enemy who killed my father slowly sailing away, and Ellie was crying alone in the water, I almost dropped the controller.

A AAA game that has also experienced this kind of “player’s Waterloo” experience is the famous FPS game “Battlefield 5” released by EA in 2018. Compared with the situation of “The Last of Us 2” that failed immediately after its release, “Battlefield 5” is much worse. Its first trailer before the official release of the game has already caused an uproar among players. Criticisms of this promotional video mainly came from traditional players of the “Battlefield” series, namely the majority of first-person shooter game fans. They believe that the images in the “Battlefield 5” promotional video are seriously out of touch with the real history of World War II. Whether it is a female soldier with mechanical prosthetics or a game scene that does not belong to any classic World War II battle, most players have doubted whether this is a game about World War II.

The response of Patrick Soderlund, CEO of DICE Studio and Chief Design Officer of EA, who is responsible for the development of “Battlefield 5”, when faced with players’ questions caused even more widespread anger and dissatisfaction. He said in an interview: “These people lack education, and they don’t know that this is a reasonable scenario.” He also said: “Players have only two choices about this matter: either accept this setting, or don’t buy our game.” You know, uneducated is a very ugly word in English. Many core players of the “Battlefield” series were completely offended, and their anger caused “Battlefield 5” to cool down before it was released.Whether it is the polarization in the evaluation of “The Last of Us 2” by the media and players, or the debate between authors and players about “Battlefield 5”, they all reflect a fundamental contradiction in video games, that is, the contradiction between artworks and commodities. Many people like to call video games the “ninth art” because games, like movies, can use various techniques to express certain points of view or tell certain stories, thereby arousing emotional reactions from the audience or players. But just like movies rely on box office to make profits, the essence of games is just products used by manufacturers to make profits. Once something has the dual missions of artistic expression and commercial profit, it will inevitably fall into the contradiction between art and commodities.

The construction of artwork is highly personal. It is more of a private expression of the values, aesthetics and techniques of the individual author or the creative team. Since it is a private expression, it will naturally arouse the approval of some people and the disapproval of others. But in the field of pure art, there is an unequal relationship between the expresser and the appreciator, that is, the expresser does not need to care about the appreciator’s feelings, he just expresses himself to his heart’s content. In this sense, artists should be proud.

However, on the other hand, the construction of high-end products is highly public. Only by catering to its own audience as much as possible can it maximize commercial interests. Therefore, businessmen often do not care about what they want to express, but more about what the audience wants. Because in the commercial field, producers and consumers are in a relatively equal relationship, and only when they reach a consensus can economic benefits be generated. If a product is not recognized by the market, it is a failure and there is no room for maneuver.

Commercial movies and video games happen to straddle the two fields of art and commerce. Since their birth, they have struggled between self-expression and public demand, seeking to survive in the constant tug of war between the two parties. The production team of “The Last of Us 2” may indeed have great ideas. They want the game to go beyond the scope of a commodity and carry some noble values. But this is obviously not to the players’ liking. As a Sony first-party game team with a heavy responsibility, Naughty Dog should not act like a condescension and forcefully instill its own values ​​​​into players without considering the players’ feelings at all. Doing so is neither commercially logical nor will it cast an unknowable shadow on the future development of the studio.

After all, “The Last of Us” is not an independent game for self-entertainment, nor is it a work of art placed in a game museum for future generations to admire. It is a real commodity. It was born with only one purpose, and that is to make money**. Of course, it is better to be able to express yourself while making profits, but when the two conflict and it is obvious that you can only choose one of them, as a manufacturer with investor money, you can only choose the logic of business, not the logic of art. This may not sound romantic, but it is the basic way our society works.

I still remember the beautiful scene of Joel and Ellie riding horses and walking past the giraffe. Naughty Dog is a studio that has brought us so many wonderful memories. I hope they can learn from this lesson and make more popular and popular games in the future.

My name is Gu Yue. Thank you for listening to “Ge Wu Zhi”. I will try my best to learn more about history and society in this program. If you like this episode, don’t forget to subscribe to my channel, give my video a like, and leave your thoughts in the comment area. See you next time.

I mainly want to discuss two issues today. First of all, regarding the issue of “transmitting positive energy” that many people are criticizing, my personal views on this may be different from the mainstream views. Maybe for us adults, blindly “delivering positive energy” is indeed a kind of self-paralyzing spiritual opium. It only whitewashes the peace and is not helpful in solving any real problems. But for children like Miao Kexin, who is about ten years old, under normal circumstances, should we focus on “delivering positive energy”? At least in my personal opinion, it is an extremely cruel thing to let a child of around ten years old know the complexity and ugliness of the adult world in advance. So** in a normal society, no matter how intense the intrigue among adults is, we should strive to let the next generation grow up in an environment full of kindness and warmth**. This is why I support “passing positive energy” to children.

However, what I said above can only be established in a normal and ideal society. In our current social reality, people like Miao Kexin’s generation have lived in cram schools, exams and competitions of all sizes since childhood. The cruel competition and huge pressure they face may be something that even us adults cannot understand. In such an environment, children have actually entered adulthood early. For them, there is no such thing as a warm and innocent childhood. This is why Miao Kexin was able to write an article like “Three Strikes of White Bone Demons”. Because it’s not that they don’t want to “deliver positive energy”, but that from a very young age, they have already tasted the bitterness of the adult world that should only belong to adults. In this case, your teacher still insists on asking the children to “deliver positive energy”. This is not forcing the children to lie, what is it?

In the final analysis, when it comes to “positive energy”, it is not the children who are wrong, but the entire society. It was the incompetence of us adults, our failure to do our part, and our failure to create a childhood world full of innocence and warmth for our next generation, that ultimately led to such a tragedy.

The second question I want to discuss today is about the role that teachers, as a group, play in the growth of each of us. I think many of you are like me and have experienced inhumane treatment by your head teacher or classroom teacher. I don’t know about first-tier developed areas like Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou. I grew up in a shantytown in a third-tier city. I experienced corporal punishment and beatings when I was in kindergarten. At that time, I was young and full of energy, so I always couldn’t sleep during lunch break, so the teacher asked us, who were not sleeping, to do squats in the corner. I was only 5 years old at that time. It got even worse when I was in elementary school. Those who didn’t turn in their homework would be queued up and slapped on the back of their hands. Note, it’s not the palm of your hand, but the back of your hand. Our teacher said personally that the back of the hand hurts more than the hand, and he wanted us to “long memory”. As for the verbal insults and abuses, there are countless. If you fail to answer a question in class, you will be said to have “granite in your head.” If you repeatedly get the same question wrong, you will be said to be “mentally retarded,” “incurable,” and so on. Students whose families do not give them red envelopes will be placed in the row behind the teacher, and class cadres will give them to students whose families have money and are willing to give them red envelopes.I won’t continue to list them here. What I want to say today is that no matter which country you are in, teachers are an inherently authoritarian profession. Because they are facing a group of children who are absolutely disadvantaged, they hold huge power** in their hands over the students. We all say that the power of the government and the state should be restricted, but should teachers’ power over students also be supervised and restricted? If you have ever joined the so-called class group or parent group, you should have experienced that parents nowadays are even more humble in front of teachers than in front of unit leaders. What are the reasons that led to today’s situation? I think this issue is worthy of reflection by all of us.

It has been some time since Miao Kexin passed away. I would like to end today’s program by quoting John Donne’s sermon:

No one is self-contained, An isolated island, Everyone is part of a vast continent. If a wave washes away a rock, Europe will decrease. Like a promontory that loses its tip, Like losing a piece of your friend’s or your own territory. Every death is my sorrow, Because I am a member of the human race. So, Ask not for whom the bell tolls, It chirps for you!

When we face these 24-word core values, we may not realize that “freedom” and “equality” are actually a pair of contradictory concepts. Because in a free competitive market, inequality will inevitably arise due to differences in background, family education, social opportunities and other aspects between people. And this kind of inequality will continue to intensify over time. This is the so-called “Matthew effect.” And if we want to artificially suppress this natural trend of inequality and promote the formation of a situation of “equality for everyone,” we must restrict the freedom of society as a whole. Although this does not mean that a society can never balance freedom and equality, there is indeed an inherent contradiction between these two values.

Therefore, in the pair of contradictory values ​​​​of freedom and equality, those who believe that freedom is higher than equality can be generally classified as right-wing; and those who believe that equality is higher than freedom can be roughly classified as left-wing**. For example, on a one-dimensional coordinate axis from left to right, Obama, who promotes “Medicare for All,” will definitely be to the left of Trump, who announced the repeal of the bill as soon as he took office.

After entering the 20th century, with the rapid development of modern economics, the traditional one-dimensional coordinate axis can no longer accurately reflect people’s political stance. For example, people usually place Stalin on the left end of the axis and Hitler on the right end. However, the two men are very similar in their views on many policies. This reflects the shortcomings of the traditional one-dimensional political coordinate system. Because it is entirely possible for a person to be on the left economically but on the right politically. Stalin is a good example. He and Hitler were both far right politically, and the main difference between the two was economic.

In order to make up for the shortcomings of the traditional one-dimensional coordinate axis, people introduced a longitudinal coordinate axis, extending the political coordinate system to two dimensions. In this two-dimensional coordinate system, the horizontal axis represents the economy and the vertical axis represents politics. The left side of the horizontal axis represents economic egalitarianism, advocating the redistribution of social wealth through state intervention to narrow the gap between rich and poor in society as a whole; the right side represents economic liberalism, believing that a free competitive market is the solution to most problems, and opposing excessive state intervention in the economy. Preliminary; the upper part of the vertical axis represents political authoritarianism, which advocates the use of stricter legal systems to restrict the behavior of individuals and enterprises, and puts the interests of the country above all else; the lower part represents political liberalism, which advocates that individual value is the ultimate goal, and the state is only a means to realize personal value.In the two-dimensional political spectrum, everyone will have a point consisting of an abscissa and an ordinate. The closer this point is to which direction, the stronger the person’s identification with which doctrine is. In this way, Comrade Stalin found his rightful position, that is, the extreme left economically and the extreme right politically; while the head of state is here, the economic center is right and the political extreme right. From this picture, we can easily see that it is actually inaccurate to blindly judge the head of state as “extreme right”.

This two-dimensional political coordinate system is often called the “political spectrum”. It is a quantitative tool in political science used to scale everyone’s tendency in political and economic positions. Nowadays, you only need to take ten minutes and take a test questionnaire to roughly find your position in this coordinate system and which historical celebrities will be your close friends.

Historically, there have been several interesting phenomena regarding the political spectrum. As we all know, the Democratic and Republican parties in the United States today bring together elites from all walks of life on the left and right of the country respectively, that is, the Democratic Party is on the left and the Republican Party is on the right. But this situation was exactly the opposite a hundred years ago. When it was first established, the Democratic Party was actually a conservative right-wing party that mainly represented the interests of American farmers. Therefore, the Democratic Party passed a bill in the mid-19th century to forcibly expel Indians, launched the Mexican-American War, and obtained large amounts of land for farming. During the Civil War, they supported slavery to maintain the established agricultural system. For a long time, the Democratic Party gained support from southern states. However, since the 1930s, President Roosevelt Jr., as the candidate of the Democratic Party, implemented the “New Deal” to restore the U.S. economy after the Great Depression. These practices, which seemed very left-leaning at the time, became the main policy direction of the Democratic Party in the future. As a result, the Democratic Party gradually changed from a conservative right-wing party to a radical left-wing party until today.

When it was first established, today’s Republican Party was a left-wing party that advocated economic reform and opposed slavery. The first Republican president was Abraham Lincoln, and his taking office was the direct cause of the outbreak of the Civil War. It was not until President Reagan took office in the 1980s that the political stance of the modern Republican Party was finally finalized. But a hundred years later, the Republican Party has transformed into a conservative right-wing party representing whites, men, middle-aged and older people, farmers and people with low education. In other words, over the past hundred years or so, the positions of the two major political parties in the United States have had interesting exchanges. This also reflects some of the essence of modern capitalist party politics.

There is another interesting phenomenon. Whenever we think of the Nazis these days, we automatically categorize them as being on the far right. But if we take a look at the full name of the Nazis - the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, we will be surprised to find that it was also a left-wing party representing the interests of workers at the beginning. As for the history of the Nazis, and how Hitler transformed from an unknown Austrian art student to a head of state with blood on his hands, that is another story.

This episode of our program mainly introduces some common sense about political science. If you are still interested in this type of topic, you can search for relevant information and read it yourself.

My name is Gu Yue. Thank you for listening to “Gewu Zhi”. I will do my best to clarify history and society in this program. If you like this episode, please subscribe to my channel, give me a like, and leave your thoughts in the comment area. See you next time.

On May 25, 2020, in Minnesota, the United States, an African American named George Floyd was negligently killed by a local white police officer during his arrest. This incident became the trigger for a nationwide riot, with large and small protests breaking out in various states across the United States. These protests have developed from initially peaceful demonstrations to violent incidents of smashing, looting, and burning. There have been vicious incidents in various places where shops were smashed and looted by thugs.

The story begins with the “Floyd incident” 20 days ago. At 8 pm on May 25, in Minneapolis, the capital of Minnesota in the northern United States (yes, the place where Dong Ge was exposed as a “sexual assault scandal”), a convenience store clerk dialed 911. According to call records released by the police, the clerk said when calling the police that an African-American man used counterfeit money when checking out in the store, but he was discovered by the clerk. The clerk asked him to return the cigarettes he purchased, but he refused.

The African American who used counterfeit money is the protagonist of the story-George Floyd. He was born in Texas, USA, and is 46 years old. In 2009, 11 years ago, Floyd was sentenced to prison for armed robbery and served 5 years in a Texas prison. After he was released from prison, he moved to Minnesota and worked as a security guard at a Minneapolis restaurant for five years. Until recently, I lost my job due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

After receiving the alarm, the local police rushed to the scene quickly. When police arrived, Floyd was still near the convenience store where the incident occurred. According to the description of the clerk who called the police, Floyd was “drunk and unconscious” at the time and was sitting in his car. The police body camera shows that in addition to Floyd, there were two other people sitting in the car at the time, a man and a woman. A police officer pointed a gun at Floyd and ordered him to put his hands on the steering wheel, and Floyd complied. Afterwards, another police officer at the scene pulled Floyd out of the car and handcuffed him. During this period, Floyd resisted several times. Afterwards, Floyd sat on the side of the road. The police briefly questioned him and told him that he was arrested for using counterfeit money.

The next scene was filmed by passers-by on their mobile phones: Floyd suddenly fell down while being led to the police car by the police, and said he had claustrophobia. At this time, the other protagonist in this case, the 44-year-old white police officer Derek Michael Chauvin, arrived at the scene in another police car. According to the prosecutor’s subsequent indictment against Chauvin, four police officers tried several times to put Floyd into the back seat of a police car, but Floyd deliberately fell down, stood crookedly, and kept saying he couldn’t breathe. Chauvin then pulled Floyd into a police car with the help of two colleagues.At 8:19 p.m., Chauvin pulled Floyd out of the right back seat of the police car. Three police officers pushed him to the ground at the same time. Chauvin put his left knee on Floyd’s neck. Colleagues around him once asked whether Floyd should be turned over, but Chauvin refused. In this way, Chauvin pressed his knee on Floyd’s neck for several minutes. The law enforcement recorder shows that Floyd was struggling and calling for help during this period, but Xiao Wan ignored it. According to the complaint, Chauvin knelt on Floyd’s neck for a total of 8 minutes and 46 seconds. After Floyd became unresponsive, he continued for 2 minutes and 53 seconds, and did not remove his knee until 8:27. After the ambulance arrived, police put Floyd on a stretcher. Unfortunately, the rescue was not successful, and at 9:25 that night, the hospital announced Floyd’s death.

Because Xiao Wan behaved extremely coldly in this incident, and the entire incident was filmed by onlookers on their mobile phones, the incident quickly spread on social media. On May 26, the day after Floyd’s death, thousands of demonstrators took to the streets, clashing with the police and turning into nationwide riots. In addition to the United States, protests have also swept across other countries such as the United Kingdom, France, Australia, and New Zealand. People carried signs saying “I can’t breathe” to express their sympathy for Floyd and their dissatisfaction with issues such as racial discrimination and police brutality that have been rooted in the United States for many years.

Although the riots are also related to the nationwide unemployment wave caused by the new crown epidemic and the presidential campaigns of the two parties, the problem of racial discrimination is indeed a chronic disease in American society. To understand why the United States has such severe racial problems, we must start with the colonial history before American independence.

#America’s Tradition of Racial Discrimination

In 1492, when Columbus’s fleet first arrived on the North American continent, racial conflicts on this land had already begun. Conflict first broke out between European colonists and Native Americans. Due to the huge disparity in technological levels and physical conditions between the two sides, the vast majority of the indigenous people in North America were either killed by Europeans, died of diseases brought by Europeans, or were driven away from the land where they lived in their own time. This is also one of the “black histories” of the United States that many people talk about.

However, what we call racial discrimination in the United States today actually does not refer to the discrimination of Europeans against indigenous peoples, but the discrimination of white people against people of color. The people of color here are actually just like white people, they are also foreign ethnic groups. The time they arrived in North America was different from that of white Europeans, that is, the front and rear feet. Besides skin color and culture, the only difference between these races is the order of immigration. Here is an idea. If the first colonists arriving in North America were not white Europeans, but yellow people from East Asia, then the order of racial discrimination in the United States today might be reversed. Of course, there are no what-ifs in history. My purpose in making this analogy is just to let you understand the nature of racial discrimination in the United States.

Although other people of color, including Chinese, are also victims of racial discrimination in the United States, we have to admit that the main and most acute targets of racial discrimination in the United States are black people, what we call African Americans, such as this one. If you come to the United States in the future, it is best not to habitually call these people “Black”, but strictly call them “African American”, otherwise you may be mercilessly attacked by the iron fist of “political correctness”.Unlike other ethnic groups who actively immigrated to the North American continent, the ancestors of the vast majority of African Americans today immigrated to the Americas passively. While the Europeans were busy opening up new routes, the African continent was still in a state of fragmentation. Tribes or ethnic groups often engage in life-and-death struggles. This was precisely exploited by the Europeans, who usually took an empty ship to Africa and spent a small amount of money to buy some slaves from some local tribes and stuff them into the cabin. These slaves were usually prisoners of the losing side in tribal wars. Europeans transported black slaves to the “New World” by ship, in exchange for a shipload of agricultural and sideline products from the “New World” (such as tea, coffee, or tobacco), and then shipped these products back to Europe and sold them at high prices. This is a complete closed loop of trade, which is the “triangular trade” mentioned in our middle school history books.

The reason why the “triangular trade” was established was that the early economic model of the North American colonies was highly dependent on labor. Industries such as crop cultivation and agricultural and sideline product processing require a large amount of labor. Since the number of European immigrants was small and their wages were high, black slaves transported from Africa became the only choice for colonial plantation owners. After all, they are strong, eat less, and are cheap. The key is a one-time investment. As a means of production, they are extremely cost-effective.

This is a good explanation of why there is such a serious problem of racial discrimination in the United States. Because for those colonial planters and their descendants, black people were not human beings, but just working machines that they paid for and part of the means of production for the estate’s economy. Do you feel empathy for the computers in your company’s office? Of course not. Then you might say, after all, black slaves are not machines. At least they don’t look much different from us. We are all human beings. Why are those manor owners so cruel? Of course these issues are valid today, but in ancient times hundreds of years ago, China’s senior officials at the provincial and ministerial levels would be beaten to death with wooden sticks by eunuchs. Times are different, and of course people’s concepts and the level of civilization in society are also different.

This manorial economy of intensive agricultural production based on slaveholding existed until the 19th century. Especially in the southern states with developed agriculture, the manor economy has become a pillar industry almost everywhere. In our current terms, the South of the United States was a “large rural area” at that time. Opposite to the “large rural areas” in the south is the rising urban industry in the north. From ancient times to the present, cities have always been the areas where advanced ideas first sprouted and spread. Therefore, in the 19th century North of the United States, cruel slavery had almost become a “street rat”. This was an ideological aspect. On the economic side, the North also had reasons to oppose slavery. As we all know, urban industry and plantation agriculture have one thing in common, that is, they both have a huge demand for labor. The northerners were definitely not willing to use slave labor like the south, so they began to advocate the liberation of black slaves, because once the black slaves in the south were released, northern factories would receive a large amount of cheap labor.In this way, at that time, the northern states of the United States became increasingly wealthy through the development of modern industry, and at the same time they always criticized slavery in the South from the moral high ground. In this way, the economic and ideological gap between the North and the South grew wider. You know, at the beginning of the founding of the United States, the North and the South had differences on the organizational form of the federal government. At that time, the South favored conservative liberalism and advocated the establishment of a “small government” to minimize government interference in private rights; while the North favored radical federalism and advocated the establishment of a “big government” to better safeguard the well-being of the people. In the eyes of southerners, northerners are just a group of upstarts who regard themselves as aloof. They were not satisfied with the content of the Constitution in the first place, and now they even want to fly away.

In 1860, the newly formed Republican Party won a majority in the general election, and its candidate Abraham Lincoln was also successfully elected president. The South completely lost its voice in the new federal government. As a result, seven states known as the “Deep South” declared their separation from the Union of America and formed their own Confederate States of America. The Civil War was about to break out.

Although the reasons that led to the outbreak of the Civil War are extremely complicated, it is undeniable that the debate about the liberation of black slaves was the direct cause of the outbreak of the Civil War. Although the war ultimately ended in victory for the North, the black slaves on the southern plantations were finally liberated. But both the South and the North paid a heavy price for this. It can be said that the black civil rights movement in the 1960s and the current nationwide riots had their roots laid as early as the Civil War era. The century-long history of racial discrimination in the United States does not end here. Although black people have obtained the same rights as other races at the national level, systemic discrimination still exists and continues to this day.

My program today is mainly about the origins of racial discrimination in the United States. With the progress of the times, the specific situations and methods of discrimination are constantly changing in one way or another. The United States has never been able to escape the shadow of racial discrimination and its derivative problems. From today’s national riots to the Civil War, they are all inextricably linked to racial issues. As for how the racial issue evolves and agitates, until it triggers riots again and again, and how black people rise up to resist in this process, that is the content of our subsequent program.

Follow-up

After listening to the above, many people may start to criticize the United States as “rotten capitalism” and “the American people live in water and fire” and use these clichés. But what I want to say is that you may only see one side of the matter and ignore (or selectively ignore) the other side of the matter.

The political system of the United States has been operating relatively smoothly for more than two hundred years. Over the past two hundred years, Americans have constantly stepped on pitfalls, corrected them, and stepped on them again. Their political system has also been continuously polished and improved in the process, and they have many error-correction mechanisms that other countries do not have. On May 26, the Minneapolis Police Department announced the suspension of the officers involved; on May 27, the FBI began an investigation into the Floyd incident; on May 29, Derek Chauvin was arrested by the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Investigation; on June 3, Derek Chauvin was formally charged with second-degree murder. The trial is still continuing.In the past 20 days, some police officers across the United States have knelt down to express support for the peaceful demonstration movement. I have also mentioned before that George Floyd is actually a “social delinquent” with multiple criminal records, and his behavior of using counterfeit money is indeed a crime in the United States. However, these are not enough to whitewash police brutality, nor are they enough to erase the fact that serious racial discrimination still exists in the United States. The vast majority of those who took to the streets to protest peacefully did not want to defend a criminal. What they wanted was to change the current situation of serious police brutality and racial discrimination in the United States.

I am Gu Yue, thank you for watching “Ge Wu Zhi”, I will do my best to clarify history and society in this program. If you think this video is interesting, please give me a like or leave your own thoughts in the comment area. See you next time.

#Video material- CBS Evening News - Derek Chauvin charged with third degree murder in death of George Floyd

• CBS Evening News - New video shows Minneapolis police arrest of George Floyd before death
• CBS News - 4 Minneapolis officers fired after arrest of man who later died
• CNBC Television - Scenes from protests, riots across the U.S. after killing of George Floyd
• Sky News Australia - The Left has tried to define deadly US riots as ‘peaceful’ protests
• The New York Times - How George Floyd was killed in police custody_visual Investigations
• The New York Times - Thousands March to the White House _ George Floyd Protests
• TODAY - 4 Minneapolis Officers Fired After Death Of George Floyd In Police Custody
• VICE News - Cops Are Taking a Knee. Not Everyone Is Convinced
• VICE News - George Floyd Protests Around the World Are Calling for Racial Justice
• Ming Dynasty1566.EP01.2007
• act.tv - Systemic Racism Explained
• CCTV Records - “The Turning Point of History: The Voyage to the West” Episode 1 - Dreaming of the Ming Dynasty
• Mrs. Martinez - life of a plantation slave
• Newsy - Remembering Chinese railroad workers
• Shotgun BomBom - French Defensive from American Natives Attack
• Anthony Hazard - The Atlantic slave trade What too few textbooks told you
• Vox - Why the US celebrates Columbus Day
• WatchMojo.com - History of the Civil Rights Movement
• Yesterday Today - 43 Haunting Photos Of The American Civil War
• mixkit-highway-between-trees-506
• mixkit-traffic-in-an-underground-tunnel-4067
• FreeSchool - The Statue of Liberty for Kids Famous World Landmarks for Children

For a long time, Calibre on PC and Mac has been a unsatisfactory e-book management solution. It not only supports multiple platforms and has powerful functions (supporting e-book organization, editing, format conversion, one-click push to Kindle, etc.), but it is also completely free. So why do I describe such a powerful software as “unsatisfactory”? Because Calibre has not had major functional updates for many years, as an e-book management software, it can no longer adapt to the needs that people are accustomed to today. Specifically, Calibre has the following disadvantages:

1. The interface is old (or primitive?) and looks like software from ten years ago;
2. The startup and operation speed are slow and the operation is cumbersome;
3. Does not support multi-device synchronization and does not provide cloud storage services (this is the most important point).

For people like me who are busy studying or working and rarely use the same terminal device for a fixed period of time, multi-terminal synchronization and cloud storage are almost indispensable functions. And today, as web programs and WeChat applets become increasingly popular, sometimes even downloading a specialized application seems cumbersome (perhaps because of the technological advancements in recent years). Therefore, it is best to have an e-book management server application similar to Plex Movie and TV Library, which allows me to manage and read my own e-books anytime and anywhere by opening a web page. Fortunately, such software does exist, and it is Calibre’s successor - Calibre Web .

The picture below is a personal e-book management website (or personal electronic library?) that I built on my NAS using Calibre Web. Through this website, I can easily upload, modify, organize, and push e-books in various formats on various terminal devices. Since it is a web version, I don’t have to worry about massive e-books taking up the hard drive capacity of my phone or computer, nor do I have to worry about multi-end synchronization. What’s even more commendable is that because Calibre Web was developed relatively recently, its interface is also in line with the current mainstream aesthetic standards. Regarding how to build Calibre Web, there are many tutorials written by seniors on the Internet, and they have explained it in great detail. First of all, you must have a server or NAS that can run stably (in fact, any ordinary computer will do, as long as you are willing to let it run 24/7). Then, you need to set up a docker environment on your device, because Calibre Web requires docker as a running carrier. Finally, after simple installation and configuration, you can have your own e-book management website.

Here we take Synology as an example. First create a new shared folder in the “Control Panel” to store Calibre Web’s database and e-book resources. I’ll name it “Books” here. After creation, remember to open the folder to read and write permissions for all users, otherwise Calibre Web will not function properly. After the shared folder configuration is completed, choose to install docker in Synology’s package center and open it. Then search for “Calibre-web” in the “Registry” page. The three images selected in the box here can all be downloaded. There is not much difference between them. Here we mainly recommend linuxserver/calibre-web. In the dialog box that pops up after double-clicking, select “latest” and click “OK” to start the download. After the image is downloaded successfully (a prompt will pop up in the upper right corner of the system), enter the “Image” page of docker, select the linuxserver/calibre-web image you just downloaded, and click to start. In the pop-up dialog box, click “Advanced Settings” and then make settings as shown below.

After that, start Calibre Web and enter Synology’s intranet IP address + half-width colon + the port number set in the picture above (default is 8083) in the browser address bar. For example, my intranet IP address of Synology is 10.10.10.34, and the port number of Calibre Web is 3096, then the address I enter is: http:10.10.10.34:3096 When entering Calibre Web for the first time, you need to perform some simple configurations, such as specifying the database directory (must match the “load path” set in the picture above), creating a user, and configuring email push. Regarding the configuration and use of Calibre Web, I won’t go into details here. There are a lot of online tutorials. By the way, if you want to continue using Calibre Web in a non-home intranet environment (such as a 4G network when traveling), you also need to configure intranet penetration or dynamic DDNS. As for these contents, they are beyond the scope of today’s article. We will have the opportunity to talk about them in the future.

Finally, I would like to recommend a book I am reading recently - “Once Upon a Time in Budapest” from the Utopia Translation Series. I hope you will like it.

In this context, a number of “vocabulary memorization” software came into being. These include Kaixin Ci Chang (https://cichang.hujiang.com/ “Xichang Ci Chang Official Website”), [Scallop English] (https://www.shanbay.com/ “Scallop English Official Website”) and [Baicizhan] (https://www.baicizhan.com/ “Baicizhan Official Website”) and other relatively excellent products. However, these software more or less have the following irreparable flaws:

• Thesauruses are mostly pre-made by manufacturers and lack room for customization according to personal circumstances, and are not very flexible.
• Most of the supported languages ​​are English, Japanese, Korean and other popular languages, which cannot meet the needs of learners of minor languages ​​(such as Hebrew).
• For profit-making purposes, it integrates many fancy functions that are not commonly used, and cleansing is not concise enough.
• Also for profit purposes, some functions are only available to paying users, and free users have limited experience.

All these are the reasons why I have been unable to find a vocabulary memorization software that suits me for a long time. However, just nearly two years ago, when I was preparing for the graduate exam, I encountered Anki , a god-like memory software. The reason why it is called “memory software” rather than “word memorization software” is because it supports almost all content formats that need to be memorized, unlike many of the “professional software” mentioned above that can only be used to memorize words in specific languages. In fact, if you want, Anki Can be used to memorize Tang poetry, idioms, and even [Navajo](https://baike.baidu.com/item/%E7%BA%B3%E7%93%A6%E9%9C%8D%E5%AF%86 %E7%A0%81/9482868?fromtitle=%E7%BA%B3%E7%93%A6%E8%8D%B7%E5%AF%86%E7%A0%81&fromid=6646373 “Baidu Encyclopedia entry for the Navajo Code”).

Simply put, Anki is a tool that uses a card mechanism similar to Flash Cards to assist memory and supports high customization. So far, I have found that it has the following advantages that traditional word memorization software does not have:* Supports almost all content forms, there is nothing that Anki does not support except what you can’t think of.

• Not only supports traditional flip-up word cards, but also supports various answer forms such as fill-in-the-blank questions, multiple-choice questions, etc. to meet various needs.
• According to the [Ebbinghaus forgetting curve](https://baike.baidu.com/item/%E9%81%97%E5%BF%98%E6%9B%B2%E7%BA%BF/7278665?fromt itle=%E8%89%BE%E5%AE%BE%E6%B5%A9%E6%96%AF%E9%81%97%E5%BF%98%E6%9B%B2%E7%BA%BF&fromid=3905802 “Baidu Encyclopedia entry on Ebbinghaus’ forgetting curve”) scientifically customizes learning and review plans to ensure efficient use of energy and time.
• The cloud backs up the vocabulary and learning progress in real time, and supports operating systems including PC, Mac, iOS, Android, etc., allowing users to easily synchronize learning progress across platforms and study anytime and anywhere.
• Supports the export and import of decks, combined with active communities and various resource sharing channels, so that users who are unwilling to make their own decks can efficiently enter the learning state by downloading and importing decks made by predecessors. Anki’s desktop version (including Windows and Mac) and mobile version (including iOS and Android) have almost identical functions, but the former is completely free and the latter must be paid. If you are neither willing to pay nor use a pirated version, then just use the desktop version. In this way, apart from not being able to obtain the experience of multi-platform synchronous learning, there will not be any specific functional restrictions.

Anki’s desktop interface is very simple. You can click “New Memory” to customize your own deck, or click “Get Deck” to enter the Anki official website to browse and download ready-made decks uploaded by other users. In addition, there are sellers on trading websites such as Taobao or Xianyu who sell their own Anki decks for a fee. If you purchase those decks, you can easily import the purchased decks by clicking the “Import File” button. Taking the mobile phone as an example, during the process of learning decks, we can click on the buttons of different colors below according to our own answering conditions. In this way, Anki will add the corresponding cards to the corresponding review sequence, and dynamically arrange the learning plan based on the Ebbinghaus forgetting curve and our subsequent recall status. It can be said that Anki’s characteristic of dynamically customizing learning plans based on personal memory conditions is the most fundamental reason why it stands out from many “vocabulary memorizing software”. This time last year, I was preparing for the postgraduate re-examination of the school I was applying for. If I can say that the ideal score in my postgraduate foreign language examination is “mostly” the result of my own efforts, then Anki is “less than half” the reason.

After a bloody storm a few years ago, the only public network disks that are famous in China are [Baidu Network Disk] (https://pan.baidu.com/ “Baidu Network Disk Official Website”), [Yutong Network Disk] (https://union.ctfile.com/ “Yutong Network Disk Official Website”) and [Nutt Cloud] (https://www.jianguoyun.com/ “Nutt Cloud Official Website”). The most notorious among them is Baidu, which not only has harsh functional restrictions on non-member users (land capacity + download speed limit), but is also extremely bloated and has many redundant functions that most users cannot use at all. In contrast, Nut Cloud is much better. It only limits monthly traffic for free users. In addition, it neither limits speed nor redundant content. It can be said to be very conscientious. However, compared with the convenience of Baidu Netdisk generating links for direct sharing, Nut Cloud is slightly insufficient in file sharing. Therefore, in the current domestic public network disk ecosystem, it is almost impossible to use a network disk product with simple functions, convenient sharing, and unlimited speed for free. In this case, many users began to turn to the Private Cloud (NAS) solution, that is, to establish a private network storage server, such as purchasing Synology or QNAP NAS host or build a DIY host yourself. However, both the former and the latter have certain technical thresholds and are not suitable for all users.

As a basic service in the Apple product ecosystem, iCloud is used by almost all Apple device users. Whether you realize it or not, whenever you take a photo with your iPhone, your photos are automatically stored in your iCloud. Regardless of whether you pay or not, as long as you sign up for an Apple ID, you’ll get 5GB of iCloud storage. Although this capacity is not large, it is completely sufficient for storing daily photos and office documents. For years, iCloud has been criticized for its closed nature. Perhaps for data security reasons, Apple does not allow users to share files in their iCloud drives with others. But the good news is that this situation has been completely changed in the latest MacOS system update.

This morning, when I turned on my computer and prepared to start today’s work, I found that Apple had pushed the latest version of MacOS 10.15.4 system update, and the update description contained a paragraph of envy: In other words, iCloud finally supports external file sharing! So I immediately updated the system and wanted to experience the feeling of sharing files with icloud as soon as possible. In the new version of the system, just right-click on the icloud file, select “Share”, and then click “Add User” to generate a sharing link for the file. After opening the “Add User” dialog box, we can set the shared link accordingly. If we only want to share files with invited users, we must not only set the “Users with access” to “Invited users only” below, but also fill in the email addresses of the users we invite above. Note that the “Invited User” function is currently only open to other Apple IDs, and the email address filled in must also be the login email address of the Apple ID. If we want to create a publicly shared link, rather than making it viewable only to specific users, then we can select “Anyone with the link.” In this way, as long as the shared link we created is sent to others, the users who own the link can open the corresponding link to browse the file at any time.

In addition, we can set the access permissions for shared files in the options below. Among them, “View Only” is read-only permission; “Can Change” is read-write permission. After the settings are completed, by clicking the “Share” button below, we create a sharing link for the specified file. After the shared link is created, it will be automatically copied to our clipboard, and the words “Shared by me” will appear after the name of the corresponding iCloud file, making it easier for us to find it later. Now, we can send the copied shared link to other users, and let them open the shared link through their browser to read or change the corresponding file. It is worth mentioning that if the shared file is in a format such as PDF, you can directly preview its content by opening the shared link without having to download and view it first, which is very convenient.

As soon as the article appeared, public opinion exploded. People criticized the Wuhan government for spending precious energy on such trivial work when the epidemic had not yet been effectively controlled. Under broad public condemnation, the media outlet quietly withdrew the article.

But withdrawing the article does not mean the end of “gratitude education.” Or rather, the retreat of this particular instance does not mean such education will disappear. On the contrary, throughout China’s long history since the Qin and Han, the culture of being grateful to power or grateful to the state has always been the greatest form of “positive energy.” As long as this culture and the soil that supports it remain, countless forms of “gratitude education” will not truly vanish.

During China’s modernization, many people have mistakenly blamed this “gratitude culture” on Chinese tradition or so-called Confucian thought, and then launched a broad attack on Chinese tradition. In my view, however, these people seem to have chosen the wrong enemy at the very beginning of the revolution.

Who are our enemies? Who are our friends? This is the first question of revolution. The basic reason why all past revolutionary struggles in China achieved so little is that they failed to unite with real friends in order to attack real enemies.

Mao Zedong, “Analysis of the Classes in Chinese Society”

First, there is a real problem in what exactly people mean by the “Confucian thought” they criticize. Mencius of the Warring States period, whom modern people almost treat as a contemporary of Confucius, already differed sharply from Confucius on many issues. Confucianism then evolved over more than two thousand years, to the point that it resembles the Ship of Theseus . To treat “Confucian thought” as one unified thing and attack it under the label of “feudal ethics” is to pick the wrong enemy.

Those who attack Confucianism seem able to see only “the body, hair, and skin are received from the parents and must not be damaged, which is the beginning of filial piety,” while ignoring “the people are most important, the state comes next, and the ruler is least.” The richness of Confucian thought and the variety of its schools are flattened by these “progressive” attackers into one backward and rotten image.

Second, the reason Confucianism came to appear backward and rotten in modern times is partly its own richness and partly the deliberate summaries of its attackers, but more importantly the domineering nature of imperial rule. China’s imperial system was highly practical. For Chinese emperors, anything useful for maintaining rule could be taken and used. In that environment, no matter how different schools of thought were at the beginning, they would eventually become highly homogenized under pressure from power.

In other words, even if the intellectual winner under Emperor Wu of Han had not been Dong Zhongshu’s Confucianism, but Huang-Lao thought, Yin-Yang thought, or some other school, later history would not have changed much. In fact, Dong Zhongshu’s Confucianism was already far removed from the Confucianism of Confucius and Mencius. To meet the needs of power, it had shed many of its inconvenient edges.

So who is the real enemy we should attack? Or to put it another way, where does China’s long-running “gratitude culture” really come from?

That is the topic I want to discuss today. As mentioned above, if ancient Chinese imperial rule played the game of “Confucianism on the outside, Legalism on the inside,” meaning it used Confucian morality on the surface to add legitimacy to rule while constantly practicing Legalist techniques of controlling the people, then the culprit behind “gratitude culture” should be the inner Legalism, not the outer Confucianism.

At this point, the answer is clear: when we oppose “gratitude culture,” what we should truly oppose is imperial rule and its Legalist methods, not the innocent Confucian thought worn as its outer garment.

“Gratitude education” and the “gratitude culture” behind it are enduring parts of imperial rule. They will not naturally disappear just because the times move forward. If we never identify what we are truly opposing, gratitude education will continue. Today, when Article 1 of the Constitution of the People’s Republic of China states clearly that all power belongs to the people, there should be no more “gratitude education.”

This site is rendered with Hugo . Hugo is very simple to use. If you want to learn it yourself, you can read the official documentation . Like other blogging systems, Hugo has many clean and attractive themes . The theme originally used by this site was maupassant . Update in 2024: after the blog migration, the current theme is PaperMod . The theme was originally developed by cho for Typecho , then ported to many other platforms and expanded with new features.

All Hugo pages support Markdown syntax. With Markdown, we can write posts with consistent formatting in any environment without worrying about appearance. Markdown is easy to learn; anyone can pick it up quickly. If you are interested, you can start with this tutorial . Typora was the lightweight cross-platform Markdown editor I was using at the time. Its interface is clean and simple, and it is free and open source. Update in 2024: Typora became paid software in 2022, and my current editor is MarkText .

After Hugo generates the complete HTML pages, we can put them on a server. You can buy a virtual host, or more conveniently, use a Git repository to host your site. Git is a widely used version control tool, and a Git repository is a small server for hosting source code. The best-known Git hosting services are GitHub and GitLab . In addition to free source-code hosting, they also provide Pages hosting.

Pages were originally used as documentation pages for open-source projects, but they are also small static HTML web servers. With Pages, we can easily deploy a static website for free.

If you do not want to manually create pages or edit configuration files, and prefer a visual interface similar to the admin panel of a dynamic PHP blog, you can try Forestry . It is a visual content management system that supports multiple environments. With Forestry, you can manage a static site much like a dynamic blog and push edited content directly to your Git repository, creating a truly no-code website workflow.

This site was built with Hugo + Forestry + GitHub. From starting to learn the tools to writing this post, it took me three days in total. I am grateful to everyone who created these tools or wrote tutorials for free. Without standing on their shoulders, this site would never have come into being.

After all, history is only an abbreviated record of past events, and it easily creates the illusion of a heroic view of history. The more a nation likes to “take history as a mirror,” the more likely it is to look eagerly for the arrival of a hero when facing a historical crisis it cannot handle. Napoleon for France and Hitler for Germany are examples, though the legacies they left were completely different. The former left the great French Civil Code and spread the spirit of French freedom and democracy across Europe; the latter left war, massacre, and a Germany reduced to ruins. Yet both were personally lifted onto the heroic throne by their own people.

Every heroic epic, whether tragedy or comedy, requires two elements: lazy people and ambitious men. People naturally tend to hand complicated problems in front of them to an exceptionally capable hero. Public affairs are complex and changeable. Handling them involves tedious calculation. Compared with participating and spending their own time and energy, people would rather throw themselves into brief and exciting public trials or movements of idolization. As for boring public affairs, let the hero deal with them.

The ones who fill this lazy demand are ambitious men. They always enter public view with unrealistic plans for salvation and promise people a beautiful new world flowing with milk and honey. Among many such figures, a few outstanding ones are chosen by the public and become “leaders” who will deal with the crisis and lead the people to the new world.

Open any history book, and the partnership between lazy people and ambitious men almost always ends in tragedy. Complex public issues do not have once-and-for-all solutions. Even if they did, they would not be imagined by a small group of leaders sitting high above everyone else. Solving public affairs requires the participation of all citizens. Attention, discussion, voting, and petitioning are all forms of participation. These are basic obligations that citizens should fulfill while enjoying their rights.

Lazy people ignore all civic duties except paying taxes and place their hopes in the appearance of heroes and leaders. In the end, they only attract ambitious men and create irreversible tragedy.

As members of an ancient nation that has not yet fully escaped such tragedy, we should remember the lessons of history: refuse to become lazy people who suffer the consequences of their own choices, refuse to become ambitious men full of beautiful visions, and work with other citizens to truly fulfill our civic duties. That is what taking history as a mirror really means.

Public trials and movements of idolization may be exciting, but citizens cannot immerse themselves in that false sense of participation and stop at the satisfaction of appetite. A great nation requires great citizens. Lazy people will never achieve “national rejuvenation.”

2019 was a year of many troubles. I faintly smelled the cyclical decline of human civilization. In this unavoidable decline, which nations will sink, and which will make it through? That is a question worth thinking about.

Without doubt, the diligence and courage of the Chinese people are worth taking pride in. They have created the world’s second-largest economy despite layers of institutional obstacles. But as former Premier Wen Jiabao said, without successful political reform, economic reform cannot be carried through to the end. The gunshots thirty years ago silenced the whole people and pushed China’s reform into the awkward state of having nowhere left to reform.

But people’s silence does not mean they have chosen to be lazy. The world never needs heroes. What it needs is for everyone to abandon “isms,” study real problems, work together, and take responsibility for this ancient nation.

My phone ringtone is “Hero,” a song written by the American band Family of the Year for a yearly TV series. Its lyrics express the spirit of a younger generation that rejects grand narratives while still warmly welcoming the life ahead:

Let me go, I don’t wanna be your hero. I don’t wanna be your big man, I just wanna fight with everyone else. You’re a masquerade, I don’t wanna be a part of your parade. Everyone deserves a chance to, Walk with everyone else.

Today, China’s younger generation bears survival pressure far beyond what it should have to carry: sky-high housing prices, corporate exploitation, poisonous food, environmental pollution, a worsening aging population, and the social security gap that follows. None of these burdens can be easily solved by a “hero.”

We have had enough of grand narratives such as “mass entrepreneurship and innovation” or “the great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation.” In the complex era ahead, these slogans seem painfully pale. In such difficult circumstances, we cannot place our hopes in the appearance of heroes. Or rather, only we can be our own heroes.

In fact, public opinion is not free of wrongdoing, and snowflakes are not entirely just. China has old sayings such as “three people make a tiger” and “the mouths of the crowd can melt metal.” With the spread of mobile internet, the original sin of public opinion has been amplified as never before. The “three people” and “many mouths” that once operated only in communities of acquaintances have turned into a destructive avalanche.

But we must recognize that the injustice of a snowflake can only be established within a specific case. To discuss whether snowflakes are just on a more general level, we must break free from the limits of individual cases and discover the deeper reasons why public opinion commits wrongdoing.

Looking across repeated storms of public opinion on Chinese social media, it is not hard to see three inborn “original sins” of mass opinion: plurality, volatility, and destructiveness.

Plurality means the natural diversity of mass opinion caused by differences in social background, values, and individual experience. But public opinion that is merely plural is not destructive like an avalanche. On the contrary, it can promote public discussion of social events, deepen people’s understanding through confrontation with different views, and ease conflicts caused by individual differences. In this sense, the plurality of mass opinion is the basis of its neutrality. It is not an original sin, but rather an original good.

Therefore, avalanches mainly arise from the other two original sins: volatility and destructiveness. Volatility refers to the way the mainstream position of public opinion swings back and forth as information about an event is disclosed. Because the public often invests emotion in its positions and views, whether that emotion comes from empathy for the parties involved or identification with a shared public understanding, every reversal of the mainstream position intensifies anger toward the perceived villain. In this process of emotional accumulation, the destructiveness of public opinion grows.

If the final target of public opinion is the correct villain, then public opinion has done a satisfying good deed. If the target is the wrong villain, then the tragedy of “three people make a tiger” unfolds and the avalanche occurs.

Judging whether an outcome meets the standard of justice requires a long passage of time. That conflicts with the naturally short attention span of the public. In addition, the standard of justice itself is plural. So abstractly discussing whether a snowflake is just is meaningless. To reduce the chance that public opinion causes avalanches, we must start with its volatility and destructiveness. Without expecting public opinion to do good, we should at least make it do less harm.

The volatility of public opinion comes from delays or falsehoods in information disclosure. Therefore, improving the speed and credibility of information disclosure is the best way to reduce reversals. A healthy society cannot function without independent and free news media. Such media can provide an effective channel for vulnerable groups to speak, relieving accumulated resentment caused by blocked information flow. They can also disclose timely and accurate information about public events, preventing public opinion from swinging back and forth because of asymmetry of information.

In other words, credible news media can act as a lubricant for mass opinion, reducing its volatility and destructiveness as much as possible and dissolving avalanches before they form.

Today, there are two opposite views of the social role of mass opinion. One view holds that its three original sins mean it can only lead to avalanche-like verbal violence and is therefore unjust. The other view holds that when public remedies fail, public opinion can spontaneously uphold justice and is therefore just.

The former demonizes mass opinion while ignoring the deeper causes that lead to or intensify its wrongdoing. The latter is too idealistic and gives public opinion a mission it should not bear. Both views ignore, or selectively ignore, the importance of news media: the former ignores the media’s role in guiding and restraining public opinion; the latter ignores the media’s role in supervising and checking public power.

The Chinese internet is full of low-quality rumors and online violence against all kinds of groups. People seem to have gradually drifted away from the internet’s original purpose of connecting people. One reason for this is the loss of credibility and independence among formal media. Vulnerable groups have lost effective channels to speak. The public has lost reliable sources of information. People live constantly in fear and anxiety. Anger and hostility spread, and the villains who repeatedly appear in social events, whether they are truly villains or not, become outlets for release.

So arguing over “whether snowflakes are just” is only scratching an itch through a boot. The real problem is like the elephant in the room. Smart people all know it is there; they simply refuse to say it aloud.

No matter which country or nation it is, it must have the common characteristics of all mankind that all countries or nations have, and also have characteristics that other countries or nations do not possess. This is the basic proposition of Marxist philosophy. In this sense, a scholar born in the United States, whose cultural customs and social structure are different from China’s, will inevitably have the unique insights of an “onlooker” who escape from China’s inherent concepts in his observations and interpretations of China, as well as inevitable misunderstandings due to language or cultural barriers. Therefore, “Governing China: From Revolution to Reform” written by Kanru Lee, a well-known expert on China issues in the United States who once held an important public position in the White House, is not a “foreigner’s work” that can be laughed off.

The Chinese version of “Governing China” was published in 2010. At that time, China was in the “golden age” of sustained economic growth, continuous improvement of social welfare, and relatively open politics. The gratifying results of reform and opening up made countless Chinese people full of confidence in the future. However, most people did not expect that just nine years later, the evil consequences of China’s system that had been accumulated for many years would begin to show. Today, faced with a series of problems at home and abroad, people are once again as confused as they were in the early 1990s. And the more it is at this time, the more we need to absorb the nutrients of “outsiders”. We might as well open this book, which was published more than 20 years ago, and see how Americans at that time viewed China’s historical development in the past century.

This book has 11 chapters in total. The first part roughly sorts out the overall characteristics of the Chinese imperial era and the history of the Republic of China. The second part introduces the history of the Republic since 1949 and discusses the governance issues faced by Mao Zedong, Deng Xiaoping, and Chinese leaders in the post-Deng Xiaoping era. Detailed analysis; the third part introduces in detail the operation model and decision-making process of China’s current political system; the fourth part analyzes the challenges that the Chinese model will face in the future and possible solutions from the perspectives of economic development, environmental protection and social governance.[①]

This article will combine the author’s own understanding of Chinese politics and culture, starting from the two perspectives of “insight” and “misreading”, to analyze the viewpoints in this book that are worthy of attention or discussion. “Articles convey the truth” has always been highly praised by Chinese intellectuals, so the analysis in this article inevitably incorporates the author’s own value judgment.

“External Confucianism” and “Internal Law”: the first division of China’s modernization pathLike most researchers of modern Chinese history, Li Kanru regards the anti-traditional trends that have arisen since modern times as “anti-Confucianism” and believes that the hierarchical order and black power left over from imperial China are all “Confucian” ideas. However, since Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty deposed hundreds of schools of thought and only respected Confucianism, imperial China has actually been pursuing the methods of Huang Lao and Legalism. Just to maintain the legal system of “matching heaven with virtue” that had continued since the Western Zhou Dynasty, the rulers had to put a gentle Confucian cloak on the cruel ruling techniques. Although the civil servants who studied and believed in Confucianism did have some moral constraints on the emperor as a price for maintaining the legal system, the nature of imperial China, which was full of political maneuvering, military intrigue, bureaucratic decadence and social unrest from beginning to end, has not changed[②].

This is the so-called imperial tradition of “external Confucianism and internal law”. Its core is actually “internal law”, and “Confucianism” as a mere outer layer can be replaced by any other thought. No matter how hard the rulers try to package it, the cruel nature of the empire will not change just because of the change in appearance. On the one hand, Li Kanru realized that “Although Confucianism was the official ideology for most of the two thousand years of Chinese history, in practice it adopted a large number of legalist ideas.” On the other hand, he attributed the imperial model of “students obey their teachers, children obey their parents, subordinates obey their superiors, and everyone respects the emperor” to the influence of “Confucianism.” He mistakenly attributed China’s “feudal ethics” to the “influence of Confucianism” while ignoring the essence of imperial China’s “external Confucianism and internal law”.

The modern representative democracy in the West originated from the feudal system in the Middle Ages[③]. In this strictly hierarchical system, social concerns ranged from near to far, thus giving rise to the political principle of “the vassals of my vassals are not my vassals.” This system of allocating rights and obligations based on closeness and distance in social relationships coincides with the “cultivation of Qi and peace” advocated by Confucianism. The effective operation of representative democracy must be based on a community of acquaintances and local consciousness, which is precisely the natural extension of the European feudal system and Confucianism that also originated in the feudal system environment of the Western Zhou Dynasty. If “internal law” constitutes the core principle of the imperial system, then “external Confucianism” contains the foundation of the modern democratic system.

When imperial China, which had been closed off for a long time, began to passively come into direct contact with Western civilization, those Chinese who were the first to “open their eyes to see the world” were keenly aware that the social system generally followed by Westerners was highly similar to the social system envisioned in the Confucian classics they had studied with great concentration for many years. They described Western society as an ideal state in which “the top and bottom are of one mind, conduct themselves according to etiquette, and take care of the world’s affairs[④]”, and summarized the basic principles of this ideal society as “the world is for the common good.” Therefore, for a considerable period of time in the late Qing Dynasty and the early Republic of China, those intellectuals who would later be called “conservatives” were inspired by the commonalities between the democratic system and Confucian classics and began to reflect on the cruel imperial system. The reason why they were called “conservatives” by later generations of activists was precisely because they only opposed “internal law” and not “foreign Confucianism”, thus giving people the impression of “defenders of feudal ethics”.After the “May 4th” New Culture Movement, under the combined influence of a series of complex factors at home and abroad, the “progressive ideological trend” of “anti-foreign Confucianism” began to become the mainstream of China’s ideological circles. This was exactly what Mr. Li Zehou called a turning point in which “salvation overcame enlightenment.” However, what may overwhelm “enlightenment” may not be “saving the nation”, but “internal law” packaged in modernity. In sharp contrast to Confucianism, which advocated “differentiated love” and valued social relationships between near and far, Legalism advocated “undifferentiated obedience”, aiming to break the inherent social network of feudal society and closely unite atomized individuals around the ruler[⑤]. The “progressive trend of thought” regards the highly centralized nationalism of Germany and Japan as a shortcut to China’s modernization, and then shifts from “learning from Britain and the United States” to “learning from Britain and the United States through Germany and Japan” so that China will not fall too far behind in the Spencer-style “national competition”. Rather than saying that China after the May 4th Movement was one in which “national salvation prevailed over enlightenment,” it would be better to say that “internal law prevailed over foreign Confucianism,” and “Germany and Japan prevailed over Britain and the United States.”

As Li Kanru described in his book, the Kuomintang founded by Sun Yat-sen after the Second Revolution was a highly centralized “Leninist party”, while the Communist Party, which developed almost at the same time as the Kuomintang, also had a Leninist organizational style and “had similar social and political origins”**. Therefore, both the Kuomintang and the Communist Party have been practitioners of the “progressive trend of thought” since the “May Fourth Movement”, but they have serious differences on the approach to realizing modernization.

“Elite” and “Masses”: Sharp Confrontation between Two Revolutionary Subjects

The victory of the Soviet-Russian October Revolution provided the “progressive ideological trend” after the “May 4th Movement” with a new path to modernization that was different from that of Germany and Japan. Li Kanru believes that ***Marxism, as a “‘scientific’ and ‘progressive’ Western theory that predicts the collapse of the Western capitalist system in revolutionary changes,” allowed some intellectuals at the time to see the possibility of “quickly bringing China into the ranks of the vanguard of civilization defined by this theory.” With the help of the Comintern, these intellectuals formed the Communist Party of China.

Unlike Germany and Japan, which mainly promoted reform or revolution through the middle and upper classes, the main body of the socialist revolution in Soviet Russia was workers, farmers and grassroots soldiers who were widely mobilized. Li Dazhao called the victory of this revolution “the victory of the common people”[⑥]. The premise of the German-Japanese “elite revolution” is that there is a large-scale emerging aristocratic group in the country where the revolution occurs. These new aristocrats not only have social resources at their disposal that are sufficient to promote social revolution, but they are also dissatisfied with the old system. For countries like imperial Russia and imperial China, where the capitalist economy is not yet mature and the emerging aristocracy has not yet formed a revolutionary force, the German-Japanese-style elite approach may not be applicable.

The early founders of the Communist Party were aware of this. Since China at the end of the Qing Dynasty had not yet formed a bourgeoisie of a certain scale, after the success of the Revolution of 1911, the revolutionary party quickly lost control of the new regime. Although Sun Yat-sen did build an armed force after returning to Guangzhou, the success of the Northern Expedition was also inseparable from his mass line of “alliance with Russia and the Communist Party” and the reality of the separatist rule of the Chinese warlords in the north.The right-wing camp of the Kuomintang headed by Chiang Kai-shek did not agree with the Communist Party’s mass revolutionary method. They insisted on following the German-Japanese elitist line. The conflict between the two sides broke out after the death of Sun Yat-sen, who suffered almost all casualties in the “Purge Party” campaign launched by Chiang Kai-shek. It was the late 1920s, when emerging powers such as Germany and Japan were rapidly sliding towards fascism and militarism. Influenced by this trend of thought, Chiang Kai-shek began to advocate the “New Life Movement” and parted ways with the Communist Party, which advocated a mass revolutionary line. Although the “New Life Movement” has the appearance of Confucianism and Christianity, its essence is to use political high pressure to cultivate the habit of obedience among citizens. This is still a replica of imperial China’s “external Confucianism and internal law”[⑦] . In this sense, China’s modernization process has never been truly completed.

Li Kanru attributed the Kuomintang’s ultimate defeat to “three ills deeply rooted in traditional Chinese political culture”, namely “nepotism, corruption and all talk but no action.” This actually underestimates the Chinese people’s tolerance for the imperial system and the appeal of the “mass revolution” line pursued by the Communist Party. Although the Communist Party’s land policy was briefly relaxed during the Anti-Japanese War, its land revolutionary movement, which widely mobilized lower-level farmers to “attack local tyrants and divide their fields,” did effectively incorporate the peasant group, which accounted for the majority of China’s population at that time, into its own revolutionary activities. By the end of the Liberation War, China at that time had no power to resist the “revolutionary social changes of the Communist Party.”

“Orthodoxy” and “National Conditions”: Differences between the Two Revolutionary Lines and the Turbulent Thirty Years

As early as the first cooperation between the Kuomintang and the Communist Party, there were differences within the Communist Party regarding the revolutionary line: On one side were the “orthodox Marxists” headed by representatives of the Comintern and intellectuals with overseas study background in the party. They advocated using industrial workers as the main body of the revolution, seizing power through urban riots, and ultimately establishing a proletarian society. The government of class dictatorship; on the other side are the “Marxists based on national conditions” headed by China’s local farmers and traditional intellectuals. They advocate using farmers as the main body of the revolution, seizing power through peasant wars, and ultimately establishing a coalition government jointly led by the progressive class[⑧] . Although the two sides reached an agreement on correcting the “right capitulationism” of Chen Duxiu and others after Chiang Kai-shek launched the “April 12” coup, differences within the party regarding the revolutionary line have always existed. It was not until the “Orthodox faction”’s wrong command caused the entire party to suffer heavy losses in the fifth “Counter Encirclement and Suppression Campaign” and the “National Conditions faction” gained the main leadership in the party that the differences came to an end temporarily.

However, as Li Kanru said, the peasant line of the Communist Party’s “national conditions faction” made it possible that when the Communist Party seized power in 1949, “the vast majority of party members were composed of farmers.” These people “instinctively tended to oppose the cities and intellectuals.” They were “unable to master the paper work characteristic of large-scale administrations, but gained the power to occupy high positions in the political institutions that governed the country”. It was this unsuccessful transition from revolutionist to ruler that ultimately led to the historical upheaval of the first thirty years of the Republic.As the leader of the “national conditions faction” and even the entire Communist Party, Mao Zedong also had the problem of “role reversal” mentioned above. Li Kanru believed that ** as a successful revolutionary, Mao Zedong “must maintain a high degree of enthusiasm”, which was “difficult to be compatible with smooth administrative management”. Revolutionaries “tend to see complex management as an obstacle to the achievement of their goals”, while civil servants “often have to throw a damper on the enthusiasm and lack of technical expertise that underlie revolutionaries’ decision-making impulses”. It was this long-standing tension between revolutionary leaders and the bureaucracy that forced Mao Zedong to use his “philosophy of struggle[⑨]” again and again to confront the bureaucracy he had established himself. And it was this “cyclical battle against its own creation” that left the Communist leaders who took over power in 1976 with a “country exhausted by social conflict” and a “government system in which mutual distrust and factional strife have become irreversible”.

In the turbulent thirty years at the beginning of the founding of the Republic, the technocrats represented by Deng Xiaoping and Zhou Enlai objectively played a certain role in restricting Mao Zedong. Because of this, they have always been regarded by Mao as part of the “rotten and backward” bureaucracy, and they have been constantly suppressed in the power struggle. It was not until the deaths of Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai in 1976 that Deng Xiaoping gradually came to the center of power and started the reform process of “rectifying chaos.” Although during the same period, debates about the reform route reappeared within the party, Deng Xiaoping relied on his extraordinary political skills to balance the forces of all parties and lead a confused China onto a “pragmatic” development path.

“Politics” and “Economy”: Advancement and Stagnation of Institutional Reform

In Li Kanru’s words, the reforms in the 1980s were a process of “first taking bold actions, then trying to adapt to the results and trying our best to move forward.” The main target of reform is the political and economic system based on Mao Zedong’s principles of egalitarianism and collectivism. It began in the ideological field, that is, “flexibly applying Mao Zedong Thought” to “liberate China from the shackles of dogmatism” [⑩]; it reached its peak in the economic field, saving the Chinese economy from the verge of collapse in Mao Zedong’s late period; and finally ended in the political field.

Although most people attribute China’s reforms in the 1980s to Deng Xiaoping, the “chief architect of reform”, it was Hu Yaobang, the “chief engineer of reform”, and Zhao Ziyang, who succeeded him, who actually promoted reforms at the policy level. Fierce debates about the reform route accompanied almost the entire reform process in the 1980s. On one side of the debate were the “enlightened factions” represented by Hu Yaobang and Zhao Ziyang, who were “convinced that more fundamental changes must be made in order to establish a more humane political system and market economy”; on the other side were the “conservatives” headed by the older generation of revolutionaries, who “eager to restore the time before a series of ’left’ radicalism”**.The “political turmoil at the turn of spring and summer” in 1989 announced the end of this debate that had lasted for many years. The “enlightened faction” completely lost the right to speak within the party, and the reform stalled for a time. Fortunately, Deng Xiaoping’s “Southern Talk” restarted the process of economic system reform and put the confused party and country on the road to the development of a “market economy.” The new round of institutional reforms that began in the early 1990s built the government’s legitimacy on the principle of “performanceism,” that is, all institutional reforms must serve to improve economic efficiency. This strategy has been effective until recently, with China’s economy growing at an average annual rate of nearly 10%. However, the long-term stagnation of political system reform has also cast a shadow over the deepening of economic system reform and China’s long-term development.

In 2012, former Premier Wen Jiabao called at the National People’s Congress press conference: “Without the success of political reform, economic reform cannot be carried out to the end. [⑪]” This statement pointed out a fundamental problem facing China today. Li Kanru analyzed the challenges that China will face in the economy, environmental protection and society from the perspective of the political system. The core crux is a series of fundamental contradictions that exist in China’s political system.

“Governing China” was written in the 1990s, more than 20 years ago. Although China has undergone tremendous changes in the past two decades, the fundamental problem of stagnant political system reform has not been resolved. In this sense, Li Kanru’s book is not completely outdated. As mentioned above, Li Kanru’s understanding of modern Chinese history has both insights and misunderstandings. What our generation needs to do is to carefully eliminate the misunderstood parts and absorb the parts of its insights.

In 2019, China is facing changes unprecedented in decades. At this historical turning point, we must carry out reform and opening up to the end with an open mind and a humble attitude. China’s land and people have suffered endless suffering for thousands of years. We cannot allow the painful history to repeat itself, and we cannot allow the reverse trend of the “Cultural Revolution” to occur again.

[①] Li Kanru. Governing China: From Revolution to Reform[M]. China Social Sciences Press, 2010.

[②] Xiong Yi. Spring and Autumn Days: Imperial Power and Academics in the Traditional Chinese Context[M]. Shaanxi Normal University Press, 2007.

[③] The “feudal system” here only refers to the social system of “feudal states and founding states”, not the “feudal period” as a historical form commonly referred to by Chinese academic circles, the same below.

[④] Liu Xihong. Private Notes of Yingjin[M]. Yuelu Publishing House, 1986.

[⑤] Qin Hui. “Greater Community Orientation” and Traditional Chinese Society (Part 2)[D]. Social Science Research, 1999.

[⑥] Li Dazhao. The victory of the common people[J]. New Youth, 1918, 5(5): 436-4.

[⑦] Liu Wennan. Disciplining Daily Life: The New Life Movement and the Governance of Modern Countries[J]. Journal of Nanjing University: Philosophy. Humanities. Social Sciences, 2013 (5): 89-102.

[⑧] Mao Zedong. On Coalition Government[M]. Green Apple Data Center, 2013.

[⑨] In his book, Li Kanru summarized the characteristics of Mao Zedong Thought as follows: ideological leadership, theory of the will of the people, opposition to intellectuals, contradiction analysis, and good use of mass movements.

[⑩] What this mainly refers to is “the discussion on the standard of truth.”[⑪] Frontline Reporting Team of People’s Daily Online. Wen Jiabao: Without the success of political reform, economic reform cannot be carried out to the end[EB/OL] People’s Daily, 2012.

Orwell’s Life

Like many left-wing activists from upper-class backgrounds, Orwell’s revolutionary life began with deep sympathy for the lower classes in colonial India. He graduated from Eton, the famous elite school, yet during the Spanish Civil War he resolutely gave up a comfortable life and joined the International Brigades. After witnessing the Red Terror carried out by the Republican government and the Soviet Union during the war, Orwell began to reexamine the so-called socialist revolution.

The Spanish Civil War ended with Franco’s victory. After returning to Britain, Orwell began his writing career[1]. His works largely reflect on socialist revolution and socialist systems. His best-known books, Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, became propaganda texts for the capitalist camp during the Cold War. Some people therefore believe that Orwell changed his political position after the Spanish Civil War.

I do not think so. Reflection does not mean opposition. As an activist who had truly entered the socialist movement, Orwell understood the nature of revolution better than those “theorists” who sat in warm studies and imagined revolution with only passion and sympathy. His reflection on revolution and satire of the socialist movement were careful decisions made from the reason and conscience he inherited from the Enlightenment. They cannot be explained away by the phrase “change of position.”

The Story of Animal Farm

The plot of Animal Farm is simple. A group of animals exploited by humans start a revolution under the leadership of the pigs. After driving away the human farmer, they build an ideal society of animal equality according to Old Major’s original vision. But the good days at the beginning of the new regime vanish quickly. The revolutionary leader Napoleon, representing Stalin, drives his comrade Snowball, representing Trotsky, off the farm and begins his path toward dictatorship.

The book reaches its satirical climax at the end: the revolutionary leaders who once opposed humans completely begin walking on two legs like humans, and bring human exploitation back to the farm in even harsher form. The difference from the old human rule is that exploitation in the new society becomes more deceptive under the decoration of propaganda. Through repeated political messaging, the animals not only silently accept their renewed slavery, but also begin to feel grateful to the new exploiters[2].

This is another story of the dragon-slayer becoming the dragon: revolutionaries become new dictators after the revolution succeeds. History often cycles through this tug-of-war between autocracy and revolution. People call that cycle the historical cycle.

The Historical Cycle

Orwell and Tocqueville are affectionately called “contemporaries” by many later intellectuals[3]. This is not only because their ideas were prophetic and universal, but also because the history they experienced has not become obsolete with the passage of time. People often sigh that history is astonishingly similar, but few seriously think about history and its similarities.

In nearly four thousand years of recorded Chinese history, the cycle of autocracy and revolution has repeated again and again. Every dynastic change was accompanied by terrifying massacre and famine. In this sense, Orwell and Tocqueville, two cold thinkers far away, became China’s contemporaries through the irony of history.

On the question of how to escape the historical cycle, Mao Zedong once discussed it with Huang Yanpei. Mao gave “democracy” as the only solution[4]. Yet when we look back at history many years later, in front of repeated tragedies, Mao’s answer seems too light, and his later practice failed to answer his own words.

So we have to ask: what causes the historical cycle of autocracy and revolution? What conditions are needed to escape it? Are the commonalities among the world’s peoples enough to support the transplantation and spread of historical experience?

These questions may seem old, but they carry heavy significance for the real world. Since the second half of the nineteenth century, countries around the world have experienced their own democratization processes. Some were peaceful; others were violent. The irony of history is that violent revolution often seems to come together with dictatorship: Cromwell in the English Revolution, Robespierre in the French Revolution, Stalin in the Russian Revolution, Mussolini in the Italian Revolution.

The possible explanation is roughly this: to unite a faction and complete a revolution amid a complicated situation, there must be a leader with extraordinary execution ability and charisma. This great revolutionary leader becomes the focus of all contradictions in modern violent revolution: the process of revolution must be autocratic, while the result of revolution is supposed to be democratic[5]. In theory, escaping the historical cycle is simple: the revolutionary leader must handle the identity transition after victory.

But real history is far more complex than theory. Every country’s democratization process is accompanied by complicated ethnic relations and cultural conflict. In those relationships and conflicts, individual choice can become secondary. In this sense, it is too arbitrary to blame the historical cycle entirely on revolutionary leaders. People have self-interested instincts, and power has an instinct to expand. Blaming these instincts is useless. Thinking about how to restrain them through external institutions is the proper historical path.

Orwell’s Spirit

For those of us living today, the first step toward solving problems is to face them. Progress in life and social change always require people who dare to look directly at problems. They can smell crisis during songs and dances of peace, and return to the value of the individual when everyone else is immersed in grand narratives. Sometimes they are stigmatized; sometimes they are treated as heroes. They are Orwell, Tocqueville, and Tolstoy; Liang Qichao, Chen Tianhua, and Lu Xun. They possess rational spirit and cold conscience. They are intellectuals. Compared with passionate revolutionary youth, society needs intellectuals even more.

China’s nearly four thousand years of history are filled with violence, blood, and tragedy, including the suppression and persecution of intellectuals. To escape the historical cycle of autocracy and revolution, we cannot lightly say “democracy,” nor can we hypocritically shout “freedom.” We must truly face problems and respond to criticism with the greatest tolerance and goodwill. We must give “Orwell’s spirit” a place of its own, so that everyone can express their thoughts clearly. Only then can the ever-rising cost of stability maintenance return to improving people’s welfare, and trains to Beijing become less crowded.

[1] Duan Huaiqing. A Generation’s Cold Conscience: Orwell’s Intellectual Legacy[J]. Social Science Forum, 2006 (5): 29-41.

[2] George Orwell, translated by Sun Zhongxu. Animal Farm[J]. Contemporary Foreign Literature, 2007 (1): 103-103.

[3] Ni Yuzhen. Tocqueville’s Unique Perspective on Democracy: Democracy as a “Social Condition”[J]. Sociological Studies, 2008, 3: 79-91.

[4] Yang Jintao. Huang Yanpei and Mao Zedong Discuss the “Historical Cycle”[J]. Consultative Forum, 2013 (11): 56-57.

[5] Hannah Arendt, translated by Chen Zhouwang. On Revolution[J]. Contemporary Foreign Literature, 2007 (3): 171-171.

I know that right now you are sitting in an evening self-study classroom, preparing for the gaokao with endless fantasies about the future. Although your recent mock-exam scores have not been ideal, you are still immersed in the glory of having once ranked among the top 500 in the province in the Jiangnan Ten Schools exam, holding on to a baseless confidence.

You probably cannot imagine that, a little more than a month later, on June 22, your terrible final score will make you doubt your life. I admit that it took us a long time to let this go. That is why, around this time last year, in a letter to my self ten years from now, I swore that I would get into Renmin University for graduate school. Now the graduate entrance exam is over, and I did not get into Renmin.

It is indeed regrettable. The debt from four years ago remains unpaid, and the hope of paying it back in the future is slim. But I have never regretted the big talk I once gave others, because I firmly believe that boasting can make me improve. As the saying widely circulated in English goes: fake it till you make it. Since long ago, we developed the habit of “pretending”: before we can truly do something, we pretend we can. This is not to prove to others how impressive we are, but to let others push us to become impressive. After all, it is embarrassing when a boast falls apart.

You are about to enter a non-elite university that you long looked down on. You will indeed find many disappointing things about it. But none of that can deny the meaning of these four years. Like everyone else, you will make many attempts, some meaningful and some not; make a group of friends, some close and some distant; and develop many thoughts, some left and some right. Some of these attempts, friends, and thoughts will be valuable. Others will be pure wastes of time.

But evolution has made us dependent on our environment. Whether we subjectively like it or not, the things we encounter and the environments we inhabit will leave irreversible effects on us. That is why I, now fully aware of this, can calmly reflect on the past during the brief quiet before graduation. We have made many foolish decisions, and we will certainly make more foolish decisions in the future. But that is the trial-and-error process of life, and we should learn to let it go.

You may feel that the future is completely uncertain. I feel the same. But I remind myself constantly that this uncertainty is the same uncertainty faced by pioneers across time and place. It is the uncertainty of the Mayflower on the Atlantic, and of gold prospectors crossing the Pacific toward San Francisco. In the next few years, I will spend my life in Shanghai. East China University of Political Science and Law should give me a platform large enough to try. Whether I will eventually live in a way I am satisfied with is not something I can answer now.

This may sound repetitive, but I still want to restate the ideology we have held since our worldview first formed at seventeen: always stand on the side of the egg. As time passes, more and more people look at the world through the eyes of the strong. They would rather abandon the axial spirit our ancestors spent thousands of years seeking and retreat to an animal law of the jungle, sympathizing with the powerful. They are obsessed with imperial tactics, geopolitical games, national causes, and calls for military unification. Perhaps they have never imagined that one day they too may become prey for the strong.

But we know clearly that the high wall is covered with fine words and lies. That is not what we want.

This was originally a boring final assignment for a psychology class. After finishing the handwritten version, I still decided to type it up and keep it. Although it is an assignment, every sentence I wrote is sincere. My future self may betray the ideals I once shared with you, or may turn around and laugh at your foolishness and recklessness. Whatever happens, please just smile it off.

I forgive all the wrong things you have done. In return, I beg you not to forgive all the wrong things I may do in the future.

Sincerely,

Respectfully

On the last day of the old year, Wuhu finally had a proper haze. In the morning, as I rode alone to school, I could not see the library hidden in the thick fog. There was a faint, almost imperceptible chemical smell in my nose, and only then did I realize winter had arrived. Unlike intermittent ice ages, winter comes every year, sometimes early and sometimes late, sometimes gentle and sometimes fierce. But in its reliability, in the fact that it always keeps its appointment, it deserves some praise.

The past year was empty for me, lacking any major goal. So I artificially set myself a few small goals of little real significance. They could add one or two byproducts to my monotonous college life, things I could brag about, and help me avoid the permanent loss of momentum caused by losing direction. Over the year, I passed Japanese Language Proficiency Test N3, passed the written part of the high school English teaching certificate exam, read dozens of books, remembered more than a dozen historical episodes, and took another step on the road to owning a dog. Compared with an increasingly hopeless legal career, these small and painless things added quite a bit of color to what should have been a dull life. They at least gave me something to point to during the routine year-end summary and say, “This year was quite full.”

My relationship with my family has become increasingly harmonious. That is another high-quality product I gained this past year. Watching my parents grow older day by day has not produced much resentment toward time in me. Whenever that thought appears, I tell myself that I too will grow old one day. In that sense, my parents and I are even; it is only a matter of sequence. That makes me feel better. Instead of obsessing over the aging of parents and relatives, it is better to use the present well: make more jokes each day, tease ourselves a little more, and let emotional connection be maintained that way. If possible, I will try to make something of myself in a way that fits my parents’ values. That would count as another responsibility fulfilled, at least as I see it.

After crossing a second year-end with Shanshan, my satisfaction with and trust in this relationship have deepened. If possible, we probably will not separate. That also brings another unavoidable problem: the weight of life on my shoulders has grown much heavier. In a society where economic distribution is not exactly fair, it is very hard for people like us to support a middle-class family with our own hands. I hope she understands this as early as possible. But no matter how hard life becomes, I will give it everything. This is not motivational soup or a solemn vow. It is simply because life should be lived this way, and no one can raise their hand and surrender.

According to the old heavenly-stems-and-earthly-branches calendar, after Dingyou comes Wuxu. Two sixty-year cycles have passed since the Hundred Days’ Reform. That was a painful historical story. An attempt to drive social change from within the system failed completely, followed by the execution of the Six Gentlemen, the reactionary backlash of court conservatives, and the fraudulence of Kang Youwei, once the spiritual leader of reform. One hundred and twenty years later, the ghost of the Qing still seems not to have fully left this ancient land. Some of the best and most beautiful things in our old tradition are dying day by day, while wave after wave of stale dregs, revived in the name of “rejuvenation,” have found new life.

The Guo Wengui revelations, the Yu Huan stabbing case after his mother was humiliated, the Hangzhou Greentown arson, the Ming Jingguo resistance case, the RYB kindergarten abuse scandal, Beijing’s expulsion of the low-end population, and the coal-to-gas heating campaign in North China: all these events that left public opinion stunned happened with unusual concentration in 2017. I do not know how later generations will judge our era, but I know that fairness and conscience among the Chinese people have not disappeared.

Baseness is the passport of the base,

Nobility the epitaph of the noble.

Look, in that gilded sky,

The bent shadows of the dead are drifting.

The Ice Age is over,

Why is there ice everywhere?

The Cape of Good Hope has been discovered,

Why do a thousand sails race across the Dead Sea?

I came into this world

Bringing only paper, rope, and a shadow,

So that before the judgment

I may read out the voices already condemned.

In 2017, all theoretical reflection bore the fruit of practice. From then on, my political consciousness fully awakened. Standing far away and watching coldly, or turning my face elsewhere and fleeing timidly, cannot change this unreasonable world. If I still hold any hope of creating a happy life for my future children, I must act and place myself inside it.

In the Constitution, our name is “citizen.” What kind of citizen? One who can express independent views without arrogance; obey politics without servility; participate actively in national policy; feel sympathy when seeing the weak, and anger when seeing evil. That is a real citizen.

If the ocean is destined to break its dikes,

Let all bitter waters pour into my heart;

If the land is destined to rise,

Let humanity choose again the peak of survival.

New turning points and shining stars

Are filling the unobstructed sky.

Those are five thousand years of pictographs,

Those are the eyes with which future people gaze.

That is why I borrowed this line as the title. In another Wuxu year, I will continue walking forward with hope, waiting eagerly for every new dawn.

The longing for sincere love, the tireless pursuit of truth, and an irrepressible compassion for human suffering: these three simple but powerful passions govern my life. This was my 2017. I place my best hopes in the new year, and sincerely wish happiness to everyone who has read this far, and everyone who has not.

Early morning, January 1, 2018