Editor’s Note

Lawyer Zheng Ling from Guoyao Qindao Law Firm responded to the Ministry of Justice’s "1+1" legal aid initiative by traveling to Wangmo County in Guizhou Province to provide nine months of legal services as a volunteer lawyer. The locations where "1+1" legal aid lawyers are stationed are mostly counties without lawyers, where conditions are tough, and there is an urgent need for legal services. As an outstanding lawyer from Guoyao Qindao, Zheng Ling has responded to the public welfare call for the second time, rooting herself in impoverished counties and providing legal aid services to local governments and the people. This site will continue to serialize stories of Lawyer Zheng Ling's legal aid work in Wangmo County.

After much hesitation, I finally decided to choose the heavy topic of juvenile crime as the focus of this note. Although, as a mother, I instinctively hate and reject this topic, as a lawyer, I have no right to avoid it, nor do I even have the qualification to hate it.

A friend once said I was heartless because she couldn’t bear how I could calmly eat hot pot while discussing the details of a murder and dismemberment case. Yes, I’ve seen much of the evil in human nature, but I’m confident that my eyes, which have gazed into the abyss, have not lost their yearning for truth, goodness, and beauty. It’s as if I’ve unintentionally set up a glass barrier between others’ tragedies and my own life, allowing me to observe without being affected. However, he—or rather, they—those fourteen boys, sitting together on the defendants' bench for the gang rape of underage girls, tore down the barrier I had thought was so solid, leaving me without the courage to face or discuss it calmly.

Because of them, I had to confront the role I bear as a mother; because of them, I could no longer easily separate my professional experiences from my personal emotions.

They—thirteen of them were born between 2000 and 2005, the youngest born in August 2005, a second-year high school student; the oldest defendant born in February 1998, a university student.  

They all grew up in the same village, the same group, only differing by house numbers. "Growing up playing in the mud together" describes their true-life experience and relationships.

On the first night after the lockdown on their village roads was lifted due to the COVID-19 pandemic, they gathered together, bursting with youthful energy. First, they indulged in alcohol, releasing nearly half a year of pent-up restlessness. Then, under the influence of varying levels of intoxication and hormonal impulses, they split into two groups. The fourteen boys took two girls, who had been drinking with them, to separate locations and gang-raped them—one of the girls had just celebrated her fifteenth birthday, and the other hadn’t yet turned fourteen.

They were also the ones who broke the village’s long-standing peace for the first time, as the sirens of more than a dozen police cars echoed through the streets where they had once played. The relatives’ cries of grief filled the air. Their youth took a sharp turn that night, from which there was no return.

My client, Wang, was just sixteen years and three months old at the time of the crime. Among the thirteen companions seated on the defendants' bench was his older brother.

Their parents rushed back from their out-of-town jobs to serve as legal guardians in the trial. I cannot guess what emotions they felt, seeing both their sons tried together. However, what unsettled me most was this: throughout the entire trial, they never once, as parents, offered an apology to the victimized girls. Although an apology can never undo the harm, it is at least a small gesture that reflects humanity’s inherent goodness.

Several defense lawyers expressed apologies on behalf of their clients and their families before making their arguments for leniency. But when it was my turn to speak, I swallowed my words. How could I offer a genuine apology in the face of my client’s and his family’s silence? Without sincerity, any apology would be just another insult to the girls, and that, I could not—would not—do.

Self-surrender, juvenile status, secondary involvement, confession, willingness to compensate, first-time offense, occasional offense—these were the mitigating circumstances I presented in my plea for leniency. Yet, I could not shake the instinctive pain of a mother, not just for the two girls, but also for these fourteen lost boys. As I looked at their still-immature faces, what struck me wasn’t the crime as described by the prosecutor, but the indifference and numbness in their eyes as they faced the trial. Through their eyes, I glimpsed their hollow souls: unable to recognize beauty, unable to discern right from wrong.

Here’s the continuation of the translation:

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They showed no reverence or respect for life—neither their own nor others’. As if playing a multiplayer game to strengthen their bonds, they treated the crime of violating another life as a game, seeking approval through participation. So, when the girls resisted, someone would hold down their hands or feet to help their companions, without anyone realizing the enormity of their monstrous actions.

And yet, they were merely a group of kids who hadn’t fully grown up—at an age when they should blush at the sight of a girl and start feeling the first inklings of innocent love. What made them so bold, so unrestrained, as to trample, humiliate, and harm another beautiful life without fear?

Among the words they’ve learned, do any include “love” or “respect”?

Moreover, among them were high school students, even college students.

Along the road I take every day to and from work stands a boarding high school—Wangmo Sixth Middle School. Nestled in a valley, the school is surrounded by walls below the road level, allowing passersby a clear view into the campus, from the dorms and classrooms to the playground. Every day at 7:20 a.m., when morning reading begins, young students gather on the playground, sitting in circles by class, led by a student in the center. Their voices rise and echo through the mountain air, and if the sun happens to burst forth from the mountaintop at that moment, it’s impossible not to feel a sense of awe for life and youth.

But after that trial, whenever I see the scene of morning reading on campus, I often wonder about the same thing: those fourteen boys now confined, and these students basking in the morning sunlight as they read together—at what moment, at what crossroads, did their paths diverge? At the next crossroads, will they have the ability and wisdom to make the right choice for their lives?

I can’t help but recall that desperate cry from half a century ago, “Save the children!” But how can we save these lost souls? The law is not all-powerful; education is similarly limited. High school and college students standing trial together, frequent cases of young people taking their own lives due to depression—all these point to gaps in our education, especially concerning life, love, and responsibility. Who should teach soon-to-be couples, those about to enter marriage, how to be qualified parents, how to protect the young, innocent boys and girls, and how to fulfill their responsibilities as guardians? I have no answer, only confusion.

Every day, I slow my steps or stop to stand a while when passing the school—watching them read in the morning, walk in the evening. Those few extra moments are a silent tribute from a mother to all lives filled with youthful vitality, along with quiet blessings.

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