On Christmas Day, veteran investigative reporter and CMP fellow Wang Keqin (王克勤) posted his investigation, undertaken with journalism student Feng Jun (冯军), of the so-called Li Gang Gate (李刚门), or “drag racing case” (飙车案). The case, which unfolded last October, involved the son of an influential Hebei police official, who struck and killed one female student and injured another at Hebei University while driving his car across campus. The driver, Li Qiming (李启铭), reportedly stepped out of the car and shouted when he was finally stopped by security guards, “My father is Li Gang, just you try to sue me!”
Since the initial story sparked outrage and concern nationwide, and the warning from the young Li became a national catchphrase encompassing the problem of abuse of power and official privilege, the case has taken many turns. In late October, China’s Central Propaganda Department finally issued a directive against further coverage of the story, and reporters working on the story were ordered to leave Hebei.
Most recently, there was news that Zhang Kai (张凯), the lawyer representing the family of the victim, Chen Xiaofeng (陈晓凤), was attacked by unknown assailants [link in Chinese], and that Chen’s parents had agreed to a settlement, or “reconciliation,” with Li Gang.
Sitting down with CMP back in November, Wang Keqin told us quietly that he was busy working on a report on Li Gang Gate. The December 25 post, released on his blog, is the first part of Wang’s report with student Feng Jun. The report deals with the issue of the supposed “reconciliation” between Chen Xiaofeng’s family and Li Gang and the political machinations behind the scenes.
The report begins:

“From Li Gang-gate to apology-gate to silencing-gate to plagiarism-gate to luxury housing-gate to media ban-gate to speed detection-gate to autopsy-gate to disappearance-gate to dismissal-gate to settlement-gate to silence-gate . . .
So ran the dazzling and bewildering saga of the so-called “drag racing case” (飙车案) at Hebei University, along tortuous turns that neither the public nor Web users, and neither the relatives of the victims nor their lawyer, could possibly
have foreseen.
One sentence, “My father is Li Gang,” threw our entire country into a discussion and action, but things settled once again into silence. How did this case unfold? And what were the forces hidden behind the scenes?

Thanks to the good work of ChinaGeeks, a translation of Wang’s report became available in English yesterday. You can read it HERE.

There has been a storm of accusations online in China since the death earlier this month of 23 year-old policeman Zhang Ninghai (张宁海), who fell from a cliff in the rugged Huangshan Mountains while escorting 18 young hikers from Shanghai’s Fudan University to safety. The students had apparently gone off climbing on their own, without purchasing tickets for entry to the popular tourist park, and they were ill-prepared. But much of the anger vented online in the wake of this tragedy has been misplaced, and blame has been heaped unnecessarily on the students.
Many have denounced the students for putting themselves in harm’s way and bringing about the young policeman’s sacrifice as a result. Others have accused them of cold insensitivity, saying for example that they have shown insufficient respect for officer Zhang Ninghai.
This last accusation has no basis in fact, and the remorse felt by the students has been demonstrated quite clearly. As for their having gone off without purchasing tickets, the management authorities in Huangshan have something to answer for on this account. The natural scenery of Huangshan does not belong to the local authorities. What makes them think they can cordon off a resource that belongs to all of us and then charge us a premium to enjoy it? If I were a student in the same position, I think I might have done exactly what these students did, finding a way to enter the park without a ticket.
The real error these students made was to not make adequate preparations for the risks they were taking on. Having chosen to put themselves in a relatively dangerous situation, they should done more to prepare properly. They should have known what the weather conditions might be, and taken the necessary equipment and precautions, minimizing risk.
Yes, of course the tragic death of Zhang Ninghai was related to their risk-taking. But do they really deserve such a surge of criticism and ridicule? We should applaud the officer’s spirit of personal sacrifice, but linking this sacrifice directly to the actions and choices of the students is entirely unnecessary. As a police officer serving in the Huangshan region, it was Zhang Ninghai’s duty to answer the call and rush to the rescue, a duty that comes with definite risks.
There are plenty of people in the world who take risks, plenty who find themselves in need of rescue, and plenty who put themselves in harm’s way to help others. But is it right to slur the risk takers because their actions led others to sacrifice themselves?
We may eulogize those who put their lives on the line for the sake of others. But that doesn’t mean, by extension, that we have to cast those they saved as arch-criminals who engineered their untimely deaths. That sort of thinking seems to imply that their sacrifices were pointless to begin with.
We’ve all been young before. Our recklessness and risk-taking agitated our parents to no end and brought reprimand from our teachers, but all of us now look back on those days with a certain pride. What could we possibly accomplish if we never dared to take risks, if we were completely drained of that adventurous spirit of youth?
Speaking as a university educator, I believe one thing we sorely need today is to encourage young people to go and take risks, and to test their limits. If we coddle the next generation, like soft chicks who must make no missteps, they may still grow up with some level of ability, but they will grow callow and conventional.
There is room to criticize the Fudan University students for their poor decisions. But there is no need to go overboard in assigning blame. Many others have acted just as they did. I did the same sorts of things when I was in school, and I consider myself richer for them. So I hope the university authorities are wise enough to deal with these students leniently.
In fact, one aspect of this whole affair that is most deserving of censure is the wave of pro-censorship jargon that appeared on Fudan University’s internal online bulletin-board site (BBS) in the wake of the tragedy — posts about the need to conscientiously control the news media on the story, to properly spin this public relations crisis. There was even a thread about how news reporters for the university needed to “hold their media position” in order to ensure a positive outcome.
This idea, that a news incident is best handled by slamming the lid down tight, is a backwards and ignorant frame of mind we’re accustomed to hearing from certain government officials. That this attitude should find such active proponents on the internal BBS of one of China’s premier academic institutions should be heard as another warning signal of how seriously wrong things are in our current education system.
This editorial first appeared in Chinese at Southern Metropolis Daily.

Earlier this month, People’s Forum magazine, which is published by the official People’s Daily, ran a story about a national survey showing that close to half of all government officials in China view themselves as being among the nation’s “vulnerable groups” (弱势群体). According to the same survey, 73.5 percent of all Internet users identify themselves as “vulnerable,” as do 57.8 percent of white collar workers and 55.4 percent of writers and academics. In short, the People’s Forum report points to epidemic levels of insecurity in China.
I had my own double-edged brush with vulnerability when I microblogged recently about a trip I made with my 82 year-old father to a hospital in Guangzhou. We had waited for several hours for an injection before I finally gathered the courage to ask the nurse why things were taking so long. “Everyone is waiting, don’t you see that?” she answered brusquely. This set me on edge, and I later decided to vent my anger through my microblog. Immediately, scores of readers accused me of “exploiting the vulnerable,” “not considering others” and even of “bullying the weak.”
In the eyes of my accusers my tale of vulnerability had placed me up top with those privileged special interests.
It was the hospital’s total insensitivity to the vulnerability of my 82 year-old father — and their lack of reasonable policies for getting patients in and out — that had angered me in the first place. But it had never occurred to me that others would regard this gruff nurse as vulnerable, and victimized by me.
Another experience that left me gloomy recently concerns my 18 year-old son. If one were to apply this concept of “vulnerable groups” to present-day Australia, where my son lives, there’s little doubt that recent immigrants, and particularly recent immigrants from mainland China, would be counted among the vulnerable. Most Chinese immigrants, save those corrupt officials who slip through the net, arrive in Australia “poor and blank,” as we say. Goaded on by a sense of vulnerability, Chinese in Australia push hard to change their stars, and fortunately the vast majority are able to establish themselves.
But the shadow of vulnerability lives on in the next generation, emerging in the overbearing hopes parents place on their children. We want them to excel, and we hope they gravitate toward the most profitable and respectable professions. I’m no exception on this count, and my hopes have been rewarded with a son who has achieved quite well and who could study whatever he wishes at his university of choice.
My son suddenly announced to me recently, however, that he wants to be a pilot.
Now you must understand that being a pilot in Australia means not only that you have little guarantee of a job, but that you have to be ready to pay the 150,000 Australian dollars (about one million yuan) it takes to go through pilot training. How many rich men in the world made their millions flying airplanes?
In any case, my son confessed to me that his passion is for flying. I wanted to say to him, “Look, can a passion feed the family? Can a passion . . . ?” And then I stopped, realizing that my son doesn’t share the same sense of vulnerability that I have.
The fact is that in Australia you won’t go hungry if you’re not a doctor, a lawyer or a businessman. You won’t find yourself underprivileged to the point of living out on the street. In a society where the basic necessities of life come with some guarantee, one can pursue one’s dreams with a freer heart . . .
Try separating Australian employees and bosses into the “strong” and the “weak” and you’ve set yourself a difficult task. Being a boss and employing workers may seem to put you in a position of strength. But Australian laws mean that you’re the one in the position of weakness in your relationship with those you employ. What about workers? They receive all sorts of guarantees that the government obliges employers to provide. On the other hand, you can’t say that bosses are in a position of weakness either. Most importantly, the law ensures that their personal assets are inviolable. When in the last few decades have you ever heard about wealthy Australians being stripped of their assets? Or of Australians having their homes raided and property confiscated? Or of Australians having their homes forcibly destroyed without compensation?
Both inside and outside China, when we talk about the sense of insecurity that prevails in our country, we dwell on such things as wealth disparity, social inequality and the pressures of life. All of these are factors, of course. But the most critical problem is the lack of institutional protections and rule of law.
In a fair and prosperous society, in a stable and harmonious society, in a society safeguarded by rule of law, everyone is equal, everyone is the boss of himself, and everyone is the boss of his nation. In such a society, the numbers of those belonging to so-called “vulnerable groups” are also substantially reduced.
In the absence of a good system, and in the absence of rule of law, the poor risk being exploited by the rich, the rich risk being swallowed by the powerful, the powerful risk being tormented and toyed with by the still more powerful, and the still more powerful are tormented in turn by waves of public opinion, fearing that a reckoning lurks around the corner.
We all become “vulnerable groups.” And we all become vulnerable to the accusation that we enjoy too much privilege.
This article was originally posted in Chinese to Yang Hengjun’s Blog on December 9.