In China, Children of Inmates Face Hard Time Themselves

By Maureen Fan
Washington Post Foreign Service
Friday, October 13, 2006

DALIAN, China -- The children answer to nicknames such as "Seagull," "Brightness," "Summer" and "Ocean," but they come with scars that social workers initially mistake for dirt. When they first arrive at the two-story house here, they hoard toothpaste, or they hide new socks and steamed buns in their bed quilts, as if they were precious gems.

They are the children of prisoners, and in this country, they belong to no one.

The law is unclear on who should provide for the children of China's more than 1.5 million prisoners. No government department is willing to supervise them. Historically, relatives have taken them in, but in practice, many unwanted children are shuffled from family to family. Sometimes, even the families do not want them.

A small number of children, like the 12 at the home here in Dalian, receive care at "Children's Villages," organizations usually run by civic-minded individuals. But there are no more than nine or 10 such organizations nationwide, serving perhaps 1,000 children, experts say. Prisoners have an estimated 600,000 children under the age of 18, according to Justice Ministry statistics; experts argue that the actual figure is higher.

The reasons for the neglect can be traced to China's bureaucratic system, but also to the scorn with which some Chinese have traditionally regarded criminals and, by extension, their children. In rural areas especially, the stigma against criminals and their families is felt almost as strongly as it was during the Cultural Revolution, the brutal 10-year campaign of terror that pitted youth against parent, wiped out any notion of trust and taught millions of people to shun "bad elements."

"People used to turn pale when talking about criminals in those times," said Zhang Shuqin, 58, director of the Beijing Sun Village Research Institute for Helping Special Children. "Some would argue, 'We can't even help good people's kids, why bother to help criminals or their kids?' "

At Dalian Children's Village, located behind a cornfield just west of this seaside city in northeast China, many of the children arrived after being taunted or beaten in their home villages or towns, and most came from impoverished backgrounds. Their parents, now serving time for robbery, fraud or murder, often earned less than a dollar a day before being incarcerated.

"Most of our kids live below the poverty line. They have relatives, but they're very poor. The more rural the area, the worse it is," said Pan Du, the executive director of the Dalian home. "If you live in a village, everybody knows your business. And kids can be so cruel to each other."

To protect their privacy, the children are given nicknames. "Shitou," 9, was the first child to come to live at the home three years ago. His name means "Stone," because he is considered the founding stone of the home. His previous nickname was "Idiot," given to him by relatives who beat him.

Shitou's mother abandoned the family, and his father is serving six years in prison for robbery. The boy and a sick grandmother bounced from relative to relative each month.

Yang Mei, 29, the home's full-time social worker, recalled seeing Shitou shortly after he arrived.

"I remember that his jacket was not thick enough for northeast China, and his pants were so short and tight they were hard to take off," she said. Yang also recalled Shitou flinching every time she tried to swat at the flies that loop through the home. It was only later that she learned he had once been beaten by relatives with a fly swatter.

It is a sad story, but every child at the home has a sad story, Yang said. To bring some brightness to their lives, perhaps, almost every child is given the name "Hai," which means ocean.

Hai Bin, 13, has a patch of skin on the back of his head where another child cut his head open with a rock.

Hai Chun, 13, used to collect garbage with her father to eke out a living.

Hai Xia, 6, the youngest at the home, is the daughter of a mafia boss killed in an accident and a drug-dealing mother imprisoned for life when Hai Xia was 2.

Pan, the executive director, said that Hai Xia had nearly been adopted before she came to the home. But the Chinese couple that was interested in the girl had demanded that she never again see her mother. They thought the mother would be a bad influence.

"Chinese people have some traditional ideas, in that if your father commits crimes, your son will be a criminal, too, or the son will always follow the father's path," Yang said. "I think the discrimination is always there. Chinese people don't want to be associated with bad elements."

Both Yang and Pan earned enough in previous jobs to allow them to work for free at the home in Dalian, for the time being. The home's expenses run about $1,000 a month, with a full-time cook and a part-time accountant. Yang and Pan have just enough to cover that amount.

But there are times when they need more. When two children needed $1,250 worth of hospital surgery recently, Pan had to call local donors for help. She and her husband have sunk more than $8,000 of their own money into the home, after the founder, a family friend, became ill.

The home would have better access to international funding if it were registered with the government as a nongovernmental organization, or NGO, but the government makes the process extremely difficult -- to the point that local civil affairs officials have failed to even explain to Pan whom she must see to register.

The problem is a loophole in the law that fails to address prisoners' children. But adding to the problem is the government's year-old investigation of NGOs, especially U.S.-funded organizations suspected of having ulterior motives. Registration of new groups has come to a virtual standstill.

Nick Young, editor of China Development Brief, a Beijing-based publication that tracks China's NGOs, said state security officials have been questioning and intimidating NGO workers since news reports suggested that recent uprisings in Central Asia were heavily influenced by foreign-funded organizations.

"I think the government is concerned about foreign influence in a rather Cold War sense," Young told reporters at a recent briefing. "I think any rational observer would see that there's no real analogy between China and Kyrgyzstan and Central Asia. It's a no-brainer."

Meanwhile, Pan and Yang focus on teaching the children to withstand society's insults and to appreciate their parents, despite the parents' mistakes. They also try to prepare the children for the day their parents will be released.

It is a tough transition, as some parents struggle to find new homes and jobs. In Dalian, the children have been treated well by neighbors and local schools, but they may not face such a warm reception when they return to their families.

An Aug. 1 letter from the father of the home's newest resident, Hai Chen, 10, reached Pan last month.

"I've been in prison for three years and every moment I think of my crime I'm filled with regret. I know my crime has brought pain and harm to my family, to society and to the country," wrote the man, who is in prison for stealing a car. "I have learned that my son was not abandoned by society, but was adopted by the Children's Village. I can't do anything to thank you except to rebuild my life. Please educate my son strictly so he will never be like his father."

Researcher Jin Ling contributed to this report.