The “Madness” of Brother Xun

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This is a work of narrative nonfiction based on real events.

Because a guest had visited the night before, I temporarily parked my car under the roadside mango tree.

When I went to move the car the next morning, I didn’t know which citizen had been poking at the mangoes with a wooden stick, but mangoes had come tumbling down in heavy clusters. Flecks of mango juice splashed all over the front windshield, and sticky juice still clung to the undercarriage — as if the fruit had gracefully answered gravity’s invitation to complete a quiet free fall.

A giant crack, dozens of centimeters long, tore across the windshield. Only the mango was nowhere to be seen.

Looking at that crack, my heart throbbed.

— Finally, I had a good enough reason to go see the owners of that auto glass shop again.

1. The Glass Shop Owner

The last time I saw them was eight years ago, in 2009.

Back then, lacking experience, my wife left her handbag on the passenger seat while stepping into the dry cleaners to pick up clothes. In under five minutes, the window was smashed, and the bag was gone. After enduring a string of frustrations — canceling bank cards, reissuing ID cards, filing a police report, and reviewing security footage — the rage in my heart had turned into a foul, persistent bitterness.

Later, angry and frustrated, I went to a cheap, reliable auto glass shop recommended by a friend.

Looking at my furious expression, the shop owner glanced at my car window and gave a simple, honest smile: “Not a big loss. Parts and labor included, one hundred yuan will cover it.”

Still angry, I snapped back: “It’s not a question of money! It’s the time cost of canceling cards, filing reports, and running back and forth!”

Hearing this, the owner suddenly burst into laughter. He pointed toward a young man in the back room and said: “Your problem can be solved in a day. That child of mine — his problem can’t be solved in a lifetime. What else can we do?”

I looked in the direction he pointed.

Deep inside the shop, a big, clumsy young man was swaying rhythmically, making guttural noises, while his mother held a spoon, feeding him meal after meal by hand.

In that single moment, all the anger and resentment inside me evaporated into thin air.

2. The One Who Walked Out of the School Gate

I didn’t dare walk into the back room, only craning my neck from the outer shop to look inside. The owner’s wife set down the food bowl, wiped her hands, and came out to greet me. The big young man swayed along behind her, babbling incoherently as he waddled out.

“Difficult birth? A genetic condition? Or trauma?” I asked out of curiosity.

“When he was in middle school, he was beaten into this state,” the owner’s wife replied calmly.

I was startled: “That can’t be right. A kid who was in middle school — how could he be beaten like this?”

The owner’s wife began to tell me what had happened.

It turned out that the couple had tried to make a living in the city during their early years and earned a bit of money. Always wanting to expand their business, they never bought a house, leaving their household registration (hukou) in the countryside. As their child grew older, he couldn’t enter public schools without a city hukou. To keep him by their side and care for him, they paid high tuition to send him to a private kindergarten, a private elementary school, and later a nearby private middle school.

“One day, the school teacher called me, saying my son had been knocked unconscious by someone unknown and taken to a tertiary hospital by ambulance. We closed shop immediately and rushed to the hospital. When we got there, we found the situation was even worse — the child was in the Neurosurgery ICU, and they needed our signatures for emergency surgery.”

“We signed right away. The hospital said we needed to pay. The 10,000 yuan the school had advanced ran out quickly. Without thinking twice, we scraped together every penny we had and paid up. Two months passed, and we had successively paid hundreds of thousands of yuan, but our son remained in the ICU, still in critical condition.”

The owner’s wife paused, her eyes dimming.

“Later, we truly couldn’t bear it anymore. We made two requests to the school: First, transfer him to a major hospital in the provincial capital; second, we had drained all our savings and couldn’t afford it anymore, so please let the school advance a portion of the costs.”

“The school was furious when they heard this. The principal replied: First, if you go to the provincial capital, the school will absolutely not participate, nor will insurance cover it later — if you want to save him, it can only be local, following regulations for reimbursement; second, the school is a non-profit private organization with no profits, where would we get the money to advance? The school has so many children — if everyone acted like your family, how could the school operate? Third, your child was fighting with someone else — whoever beat him, go find them!”

“We ignored the school; saving our child was what mattered. After borrowing money from every relative and friend we had, we transferred him to the provincial capital. Two months later, he finally pulled through the critical phase, and then spent another six months in a rehabilitation hospital. During those six months, we kept negotiating with the school. In the end, driven to a dead end, we took the school to court. First trial, second trial…”

3. First and Second Trials

“We lost! Not a single cent in compensation!” the owner’s wife said.

“How is that possible? If they didn’t award a single cent, what reason did the court give?”

“The court said our child was like this when he was little, and it had nothing to do with the school.”

“Oh,” I said. “Then I suppose there’s nothing you can do.”

In that moment, I suddenly lost all interest in knowing more. I was only here to replace my glass; since the owner’s warmth had dissolved the bitterness in my heart, the matter should end right here. There was no need to stir up further complications.

“How does it have nothing to do with the school?!” Her words suddenly shattered my detachment. “The school isn’t a school for the disabled! My child walked through that school gate on his own feet, and his exam grades weren’t bad. Why was he brought out lying down when he left that school gate?! Why is he unable to take care of himself now?! How can you say it has nothing to do with the school?!”

Those words struck deep at my curiosity. Since I had nothing better to do anyway, I asked her to bring out the documents. Relying on my medical background, I flipped through the summaries of the first and second trial verdicts, the judicial appraisal opinions, as well as copies of the discharge records from both the local hospital and the provincial hospital.

“Why did you mention to the doctor that the child fell off a tricycle when he was little?” I pointed at the medical record and asked.

“The doctor asked several times if the child had ever bumped his head as a child. I said no. The doctor reminded me to think carefully, so I remembered that back in kindergarten, he fell off a tricycle once.”

“When he fell off back then, did he see a doctor?”

“It’s normal for little kids to fall off a tricycle. No bleeding, no lumps, he was completely fine, so we didn’t see a doctor. Besides, he was fine afterward with reading, studying, and helping with chores. If the doctor hadn’t repeatedly pushed me while he was hospitalized, I wouldn’t have remembered it at all.”

I sighed. In my eyes back then, this was likely the fatal flaw that shook the entire legal chain of causation.

“As I understood judicial practice at the time, judges ultimately had to rely heavily on the conclusions of judicial appraisal agencies,” I tried to explain using the logic as I understood it. “The judicial appraisal agency reached its conclusion based on the local hospital’s first discharge record. But that local hospital’s record listed two facts side-by-side: one was the self-reported childhood injury, and the other was the self-reported incident at school. To me, that looked like a typical example of defensive medicine on the doctor’s part to avoid liability; but for the judicial appraisal agency, as long as such a probability existed, it was very difficult to give an absolute, direct finding of causation. When the court received a conclusion like that, it was naturally hard, procedurally, to rule that the school should bear full responsibility.”

Hearing my long analysis, the owner’s wife looked utterly lost: “Could it… could falling once as a child really leave such a huge hidden danger? Sprouting up out of nowhere after so many years?”

“Auntie, sequelae flare-ups land you in the neurology ward, but your kid suffered intracranial hemorrhage from being beaten and went into neurosurgery for a craniotomy!” I pointed out the absurdity against basic medical common sense with helplessness. “The second medical record from the provincial capital actually emphasized the role of recent trauma, but the court of first instance ultimately adopted the judicial appraisal from the authoritative agency. That’s where the logical chain got stuck.”

“Then… what should we do?” The owner’s wife grew anxious.

“Can you apply for a re-appraisal?” I suggested weakly.

“It’s useless. I said the same thing during the second trial, but the judge told me judicial appraisals must be conducted by court-designated agencies. Later lawyers also said there was no hope, so it just faded away.”

That was 2009. Back then, I had just gone through a setback myself: My dissertation blind reviews were all A’s, and everyone said I was guaranteed to pass; yet when it reached the expert panel review, it passed with 5 votes in favor and 4 against, losing votes along the way; when it reached the full committee, they rejected me outright because ‘the small panel vote was not high enough.’ The lesson that experience taught me was: In this society, unless you are truly so outstanding that no one can ignore you, you must strictly abide by other people’s rules of the game.

The car window was fixed, and I prepared to leave. Before leaving, refusing to give up, I asked one last question: “What happened to the school later?”

The owner’s wife said: “The school closed down. The owner leased out the land to others and sits back collecting rent money.”

No person you meet in this life is met by chance. When I first arrived, the owner dissolved the bitterness in my heart; before leaving, I felt I ought to leave something behind.

Pondering for a moment, I said to the owner’s wife: “You have to report this to leadership. Hold fast to just one line: Why did my child walk into the school and come out lying down, yet the school pays not a single cent? If the leaders say nobody was at fault, ask them — If nobody was at fault, does that mean it was my fault?”

4. Setting Foot in Beijing

In the blink of an eye, eight years passed, bringing us to May 2017.

Yet the words spoken by the glass shop owner’s wife back then felt as if they were uttered yesterday. Driving slowly along Fuxia Road, I spotted that same glass shop still hanging that dust-covered sign from years ago, recognizing it at a single glance.

The shop owner still possessed the same strong build as eight years prior. He glanced at my windshield: “That’ll be 700 yuan, takes about two hours. I’ll go to the warehouse to get the glass now.”

“Such a big front windshield, good quality and fair price — let’s do it!”

I walked inside. At a glance, I recognized the owner’s wife. She had aged a lot, but the sorrow between her eyebrows had completely smoothed out, revealing a gentle, kindly demeanor. She was holding a bowl of food, feeding that grown, yet still incoherently babbling child spoon by spoon.

Seeing me walk in, she cracked a smile and looked out the door at my car: “Congratulations! You got a new car! Wasn’t your old one a blue micro-van? This one is spacious!”

Eight years had passed, yet she recognized me at a single glance and even remembered the car I drove back then.

“Auntie, later on… what happened after that?” Seeing her compassionate expression, I plucked up the courage and asked urgently.

She set down her spoon and began telling me the rest of the story.

5. The Desk-Slamming Secretary and Cold Mantou

“That day, following your advice, I went to the district court to find the vice president.

After hearing my demands, the vice president gave a cold laugh and asked me: ‘Are you related to me? Do we know each other? Is it worth it for me to overturn a case decided by my longtime colleagues for someone I have no ties with? Can you give me one good reason?’

Hearing this made me furious. I said to him: ‘I install glass. If I take a customer’s money, I have to install the glass properly. If I don’t, it’s my dereliction of duty, and I don’t deserve to be a glass installer. You are the court president taking state wages; you must handle cases impartially. If you don’t handle cases impartially, it’s your dereliction of duty, and you don’t deserve to be president!’

With that, I left. I went to the district government to find the district chief. The district chief wasn’t in that day, but the district party secretary was. I went in and explained the situation.

The district party secretary was furious after hearing it. On the spot, he slammed his hand on the desk, called the court vice president, and sternly interrogated him about how he could put on bureaucratic airs with common people and speak such irresponsible words!

Hanging up the phone, the secretary said to me: ‘Look, for your sake, I didn’t hesitate to offend my colleague; I’ve criticized what needed to be criticized. But your case was finalized in the second trial, so procedurally, I can’t help you there. Go to the city level; find the petitions office. Before you go, register at the district petitions bureau first and say I sent you, so they open a document for you — that way, it won’t count as jumping the chain of petitioning.’

I took the document and went to the city petitions office.

When I reached the city, the staff were very polite, but they gave no answers or documents, dragging it out for over half a year. Later, people from the school even called to mock me: ‘Keep making a fuss if you want! We’d rather spend more money hiring lawyers and giving gifts than give you a single cent!’

I thought to myself: I can’t afford to drag this out. Gritting my teeth, I prepared to go to Beijing.”

The owner’s wife took a breath, her gaze drifting toward the distance.

“That was on the eve of the 18th National Congress. My household registration was in the county, but the case had been dragging on in the district. I took the train to Beijing West Station all by myself.

Stepping out of the station, I hailed a taxi and told the driver to go to Tiananmen. The driver asked what I was going to Tiananmen for, and I said to ‘attend a meeting.’ The driver didn’t ask further. When we got close to Tiananmen, he told me: ‘Auntie, security is tight, I can only drop you off here. If you’re going to a meeting, walk forward five hundred meters through security.’

As soon as I got off, I saw soldiers posted everywhere. I lined up to go through security when a passerby nearby leaned over and asked: ‘Where are you from?’ I casually said: ‘Fu-Jian.’

Before the words fully left my mouth, several people suddenly pounced from the side, shoved me into a black van, and hauled me off to a nearby hotel.

At the hotel, I shouted and screamed. A person who looked like an official asked me to show my ID card. I was naive back then, so I gave it to him. He took one look, waved his hand, and called two people from our provincial liaison office in Beijing. My fellow provincials told me this was ‘illegal, out-of-order petitioning.’

The conditions in that hotel were terrible, filled with people grabbed from all over the country, with dialects I couldn’t understand echoing everywhere. Every meal was just a single cold mantou washed down with tap water straight from the faucet. I was locked up in there for two days before the car driven by my fellow provincials arrived, driving through wind and dust to escort me back home.

Yet once I stepped out of the train station, nobody came to pick me up. My complaints were about the district, but my ID card was from the county. Sent to the county, nobody knew who I was, and nobody was responsible, so I just walked home myself.

I slept at home for one night, bought a new bullet train ticket the next day, and went to Beijing again.”

6. Three Trips to Beijing

“The second time I got to Beijing, I hailed a cab to Tiananmen again.

This time, whoever asked where I was from, I didn’t say a word. When going through security, I dropped directly to my knees before the PLA soldier doing inspection and explained my situation. The PLA soldier was very polite, saying petitioning wasn’t here but at the National Public Complaints and Referrals Administration, even giving me a standardized card and map they printed.

I took a cab to the National Public Complaints Bureau. When I arrived, I was terrified — it was black with people, tens of thousands of them, the queue stretching out of sight.

I queued up dutifully. Waiting was boring, so a rural auntie nearby came over to ask about my situation. I chatted with her in broken Mandarin, and she asked: ‘You came from Fu-Jian, right?’ I said yes.

Hardly had I spoken than two people popped up from the side again and dragged me onto a bus. Once more, I was locked in a hotel, and once more, I was escorted back.

The two officials escorting me were the exact same two from last time. Their eyes went wide with shock, wondering how I managed to run faster than them. The whole way back, they kept making phone calls, interrogating our village cadre on why they failed to keep watch on me.

Back in the county, the leadership scolded the village cadres until they were blue in the face. But I had married into that village, and my husband had worked in the city since he was young, so nobody in the village actually knew us. I knew telling the village cadres about the case was useless, so I didn’t say a single word. The village cadres arranged for me to stay in a town inn, and in the middle of the night, I climbed out the window and escaped.

The third time, I reached the Beijing Complaints Bureau once again.

In line this time, I ignored anyone who spoke to me. After queuing for half a day, I finally squeezed through the main doors.

The worker inside the complaints bureau was a young man. The time I spent communicating with him added up to less than a minute. He accepted the materials, waved his hand, and told me to leave.

As I walked toward the exit, tears of grievance fell from my eyes. Having suffered so much and traveled to Beijing so many times, how could it end in such an insignificant, one-minute meeting?

A young girl walked over to comfort me. She said: ‘Auntie, tens of thousands of people come here every day; no matter how big the grievance, it’s just this one minute. Go home in peace. Turn left out the door and shout where you’re from at the top of your lungs. Now that the materials are submitted, the local authorities will pay attention, and there will be a special car to take you back.’

The girl then added: ‘When you go back, remember three points: First, if you want financial compensation, ask bold terms from the people who pick you up; second, whichever official abused power for selfish gain, report him every year when the Organization Department evaluates cadres so he can’t get promoted for the rest of his life; third, if you’re still unsatisfied, go wait outside the relevant local government gates every year during the Two Sessions.’

I walked out the main doors, stood at the intersection, and shouted our hometown’s name at the top of my lungs.

Almost instantly, an official speaking with a hometown accent came running over, shook my hand warmly, arranged for me to stay in a high-end hotel, and told me to order whatever I wanted to eat. I wept loudly, pouring out all my grievances in one breath. That official listened and noted everything down carefully, finally saying: ‘You’ve suffered. If the situation is true, we will try to secure a 600,000 yuan subsidy for you. Please don’t petition anymore — if anything comes up in the future, contact me directly.’

Returning home, I called that official.

He told me over the phone: He had coordinated across multiple departments — the Education Bureau, Comprehensive Governance Office, Political and Legal Affairs Commission, and the Disabled Persons’ Federation — squeezing funds out of limited budgets. Although 600,000 was discussed orally in Beijing, after layers of approval and implementation, the amount that actually materialized was a 500,000 yuan subsidy grant. ‘It really can’t be any more; this is for emergency relief. The second trial has passed, and legally it can’t be overturned. Don’t live with hatred; focus on taking care of your child.’

I thought to myself: 500,000 is better than nothing.

Besides, I followed what that young girl in Beijing instructed. For the person backing the school, every year when the Organization Department came to evaluate cadres, I went to report the situation, ensuring he could never get promoted; every year during the Two Sessions, I brought my thermal flask and squatted at the entrance of the relevant departments. Whenever I saw someone in charge, I vented what needed to be vented, and after speaking, I went home to take good care of my child.

During the recent leadership transition, I went to find that official who picked me up again. He was very straightforward: ‘Auntie, don’t bother traveling to Beijing; the travel costs are high. Funds are limited, but I can adjust another 20,000 yuan for you.’ Thinking about it, it made sense, so I took the 20,000 yuan and went home. A few days ago, they sent someone over with another 2,000 yuan in condolence money. I thought to myself, it’s time to buy a new set of clothes for the child…”

7. Live Knots and Dead Ends

I listened intently, never expecting such an outcome.

While we were talking, the front windshield had been repaired. While pulling out money to pay, I couldn’t help but ask: “The child… how is he now?”

“He won’t get better,” the owner’s wife said calmly. “Eating was already difficult, and later as he grew, his physical strength increased, so the two of us slowly couldn’t manage him. Now, while we haven’t grown completely frail, we ensure he gets a bath once a week, which takes half a day. Brushing teeth and rinsing have long stopped; over all these years, his teeth have all fallen out, and he can no longer chew, so he can only eat soft food. I don’t know how many years he has left to live.

Still, maybe it’s better this way. Let him pass away before us so he suffers less in this life. If we were to leave first, leaving him alone in this world, he wouldn’t last a few days.”

Feeling I had asked the wrong question, a pang of sorrow hit my heart, and I quickly comforted her: “The year before last, I went to Beijing and met an elderly Taiwanese professor. He was 78, and his son, who had an intellectual disability, was 55. The old professor told me he felt very blessed. He said: ‘Normal people’s children go off to college at 18 and drift away from their parents, whereas I have been a happy father for 55 years.’”

Hearing this, tears suddenly welled up in the owner’s wife’s eyes.

She let out a soft sigh and whispered: “Young man, you don’t understand. That old professor was hurting inside; he was just comforting himself. We never stop thinking — if our child hadn’t suffered that disaster, he would be a father by now. Even if he were working away from home, not contacting us all year long, as long as we knew a healthy child was out there marrying, having children, and living peacefully, we would be completely satisfied…”

The setting sun poured through the mottled doorframe of the glass shop, shining onto that massive body eating soft food with a mouth devoid of teeth, babbling incoherently.

In that single moment, a resolute, lonely figure suddenly flashed across my mind.

I shuddered violently.

I recalled that night a while ago, sitting in the courtyard drinking cold tea, when Brother Xun said he was going to take a Didi to Beijing.

Suddenly, I didn’t dare think any further —

That once-brilliant deputy director of the Anti-Corruption Bureau, that Brother Xun who held the law and authority in his hands, slapping his credentials on the table to talk about “official business”…

His trip to Beijing this time… could it be… that he was going there to petition too?

(To be continued)