——宏志达青少年成长基地殴打学员致盲事件探讨
作者：周敏
母亲节那天，张先生一家收到了儿子从湖北黄石市阳新县宏志达青少年成长基地写的感恩信。那封信是基地安排写的，他们不知道这一点，以为是儿子的心声。但在同一天晚上，儿子在宿舍里写了另一张纸条，是求救信，托一个快要离开的学员带出去，请妈妈来救他出去。
两封信，出自同一双手。一张是这套系统要他写的，一张是他自己想写的。
前者送到了家长手里。后者被班主任发现，被暴打导致昏迷和右眼失明。
张先生不是坏父亲。他实地考察时看到孩子打球下棋，也听到了不打骂的承诺。他付了3.28万元，以为买来了孩子的转机。是什么样的处境，让一个爱孩子的父亲，签下了那份合同？
一、焦虑制造
张浩今年读初中二年级，13岁，今年4月开始逃学、夜不归宿。按照任何正常的发展心理学标准，这都只是需要关注、需要介入的信号，并不是危机。
然而在张先生的处境里，这就是危机。
理解这一点，得先理解中国家长的焦虑是在什么土壤里长出来的。
独生子女政策实施了近四十年，最深远的心理后果之一，是将所有的期望、资源和焦虑，全集中在一个孩子身上。这个孩子没有兄弟姐妹可以分担父母的期待，没有堂表亲可以提供缓冲和交流。他是唯一的赌注。
高考制度又深化了焦虑。在一个教育资源高度不均，学历与阶层流动高度挂钩的社会里，孩子”废掉了”，意味着家族数十年积累的社会位置可能就此中断。这一点都不夸张。
2000年代，出现了“网瘾”这个概念。媒体与部分专家联手完成了一次道德恐慌：打游戏被等同于精神疾病，网络是毁掉下一代的洪水猛兽。正常的青春期探索和挣扎，被定义成需要干预的病态。
张浩逃学、夜不归宿，在这种环境下，不是一个需要理解和沟通的信号，而是一个需要被治疗和矫正的病。张先生的焦虑是真实的，同时也是被系统性放大的。
二、求助空白
作为家长，面对一个逃学、夜不归宿的13岁儿子，上哪儿寻求帮助？
学校心理老师是第一个答案，也是第一个失望。中国中小学心理健康教师的配置长期严重不足，而且其职能以维稳为导向：压制危机、安抚情绪、防止事件扩大，并不以孩子的长期利益为核心提供支持。对于一个逃学的孩子，学校更常见的反应是施压、约谈家长，而非提供实质性的心理支持。
公立医院的青少年心理科是第二个答案。在北京、上海等大城市，知名儿童医院的心理科候诊期以月计，部分热门专家的号需要提前数月预约。就算挂上号，费用大多不在医保覆盖范围内，长期心理治疗对普通家庭是沉重的经济负担。对于一个居住在江西九江的普通家庭，这条路太难。
家庭治疗是第三个答案。在中国，这几乎不存在。家庭治疗师是稀缺的私人服务，价格昂贵，在大多数二三线城市也没有足够的从业者。
社区支持是第四个答案。中国的社区服务体系，在青少年心理健康这个领域，基本上是空白一片。
当所有的答案都失效，一个父亲在网上搜索，看到了宏志达的宣传。
这个空白怎么来的？是长期把教育资源集中于应试，将心理健康视为可有可无的软性需求，将家庭问题私有化处理的政策积累而来。国家撤出了它本应有的位置，让市场填了进来。
市场填补空白的方式很精密。2022年在福建晋江开张的四维成长基地，校长向明胜先向泉州民政局申请了”未成年人成长指导服务中心”的公益资质，取得批文后迁址另立，挂上民政局主管的牌子对外招生。武女士当场缴纳六万元，理由只有一个：政府办的，肯定正规。民政局后来回应：早就要求该中心关闭了，不知道他们跑到晋江的村里建了这个基地。国家不作为的空白，被一块假冒的政府招牌填上。四维基地在两年内虐待了至少八名青少年，其中14岁的小武在二十八天里被通宵罚站、跪举水盆、关入小黑屋铁笼，最终落下终身残疾。被踢骨折当晚，校长打电话给武女士，说孩子跑步摔了个小伤。
这就是市场带来的解决方案：暴力监禁填补了公共服务的缺失，政府招牌填补了家长的信任需求。
三、共谋完成
这是这篇文章最难写也最必要的部分。
张先生在付款前，知道六个月内不能与儿子联系。他知道孩子会被骗配合调查电信诈骗的说法以来到基地，但家长配合了这个安排。怀着信任签了协议，付了款。
这构成了一种共谋。
在使用这个词之前，需要说清楚它的含义。共谋不是主谋。张先生完全没想伤害儿子。他的出发点是爱，是这个社会里走投无路之后的孤注一掷。
但共谋是真实存在的，它包含了三种成份：
第一个是绝望状态下的认知收窄。心理学研究认为，人在极度焦虑和压力下，决策质量下降，对风险的评估会失真，对解决方案的渴望会压过一切审慎。张先生在付款前实地考察，看到孩子们打球娱乐，听到不打骂的承诺，这些信息被他的绝望过滤之后，变成了他想看到的样子。六个月不联系这个显然值得警惕的条款，在绝望状态下被接受为专业方法。
第二个是”为你好”的文化。在中国家长主流文化里，管教孩子天然是爱的表达，严厉是美德，痛苦是成长的必要代价。”不打不成器”是一套完整的教育哲学，在数代人之间传递。当一个基地告诉家长”我们会用严格的方式教育你的孩子”，这个文化框架会帮助家长将严格与暴力之间的边界模糊掉。
第三个是对国家改造逻辑的深度消化。这是最隐蔽也最根本的一层，起了决定性作用。长期生活在一个”问题人口可以被关押改造，隔离可以产生转化，强制是为了当事人好”的社会结构里，这种表达在不知不觉中成为常识。它不是书面的规则，但存在于空气中，被每一代人呼吸进去。当张先生考虑把儿子送进一个封闭基地时，并没有意识到自己正在重复一套国家改造术的民间版本。他以为这是一个主动的选择。
共谋就这样完成了。通过呼吸般自然的逻辑，一个爱孩子的父亲，在法律允许的范围内，将孩子的人身自由让渡给了一个靠着暴力运营的机构。
正视这一点，不是为了谴责张先生，也不是减轻班主任教官的责任。而是为了寻找一个紧迫的答案：下一个走投无路的父母，需要什么，才能不再走上同一条路？
四、出路在何方
答案其实是清晰的：专业支持体系，去污名化的青少年心理健康服务，学校真正承担辅导功能而不是只管分数，社区的家庭支持网络。
但这些答案面临双重障碍。
第一重障碍是资源和制度的问题。上述体系需要持续的公共投入、专业人才的培养、将心理健康纳入公共卫生优先议程的政策，这些不是不可能，但需要优先级的重新排列。
第二重障碍更深，也更难。只要”强制改造问题人口”的国家逻辑没有被反问，民间版本就永远有它的土壤。公共服务能减少家长走投无路的绝望，但无法彻底消除家长认知的被塑造。一个在这种国家级逻辑里成长的家长，即使有更好的选择，也仍然倾向于相信强制能够改变人。
这是一个需要几代人才能完成的文化工程，而它的起点，是愿意正视强制改造的源头。
五、两张纸条
母亲节那天，感恩信被送出去了，求救纸条没有送出去。
这两张纸条之间的距离，是一套系统在运作的证明：它知道如何管理信息，如何让外部看到它想让人看到的，如何将声音压制在封闭空间里。
这套系统不是某个成长基地建立的。它由市场搭建，由文化背书，由制度空白提供生存土壤，由家长的签名和付款完成最后一公里的授权。
张浩的右眼，在黑暗里度过了一夜。那个黑暗剧情，由不同的角色共同建造。
编辑：黄吉洲 校对：熊辩 翻译：戈冰
Who Is Paying for This Violence?
—A Discussion of the Incident at the Hongzhida Youth Development Center Where a Trainee Was Beaten Blind
Author: Zhou Min
On Mother’s Day, Mr. Zhang’s family received a thank-you letter from their son, written at the Hongzhida Youth Development Center in Yangxin County, Huangshi City, Hubei Province. They were unaware that the center had instructed him to write the letter; they believed it reflected their son’s true feelings. But that same evening, in his dormitory, the son wrote another note—a plea for help. He entrusted it to a fellow student who was about to leave, asking him to take it out and beg his mother to rescue him.
Two letters, written by the same hand. One was what the system forced him to write; the other was what he truly wanted to say.
The former reached the parents’ hands. The latter was discovered by the homeroom teacher, leading to a brutal beating that left him unconscious and blind in his right eye.
Mr. Zhang is not a bad father. During his on-site visit, he saw his son playing sports and chess, and he was assured that there would be no physical punishment or verbal abuse. He paid 32,800 yuan, believing he had purchased a new beginning for his son. What kind of situation led a father who loves his child to sign that contract?
I. The Creation of Anxiety
Zhang Hao is currently in his second year of junior high school; he is 13 years old. Since April of this year, he has been skipping school and staying out all night. By any standard of developmental psychology, this is merely a signal that attention and intervention are needed—not a crisis.
Yet in Mr. Zhang’s situation, this was a crisis.
To understand this, one must first understand the soil in which Chinese parents’ anxiety takes root.
The one-child policy has been in place for nearly four decades, and one of its most profound psychological consequences is that all expectations, resources, and anxiety are concentrated on a single child. This child has no siblings to share the parents’ expectations, no cousins to provide a buffer or a sounding board. He is their sole stake.
The college entrance exam system has further intensified this anxiety. In a society where educational resources are highly unequal and academic credentials are closely tied to social mobility, a child “failing” means that the social standing accumulated by the family over decades could come to an abrupt end. This is by no means an exaggeration.
In the 2000s, the concept of “internet addiction” emerged. The media and certain experts joined forces to create a moral panic: playing video games was equated with mental illness, and the internet was portrayed as a flood of monsters destroying the next generation. Normal adolescent exploration and struggles were defined as pathological conditions requiring intervention.
In this environment, Zhang Hao’s truancy and staying out all night were not seen as signals requiring understanding and communication, but as a disease requiring treatment and correction. Mr. Zhang’s anxiety was real, yet it was also systematically amplified.
II. A Gap in Support
As a parent, where does one turn for help when faced with a 13-year-old son who skips school and stays out all night?
The school counselor is the first answer—and the first source of disappointment. China has long suffered from a severe shortage of mental health professionals in primary and secondary schools, and their roles are primarily focused on maintaining stability: suppressing crises, soothing emotions, and preventing incidents from escalating, rather than providing support centered on the child’s long-term well-being. For a child who skips school, the school’s more common response is to apply pressure and summon the parents for a meeting, rather than offering substantive psychological support.
The adolescent psychiatry departments at public hospitals are the second option. In major cities like Beijing and Shanghai, waiting times at the psychiatry departments of renowned children’s hospitals are measured in months, and appointments with some popular specialists must be booked several months in advance. Even if an appointment is secured, the costs are largely not covered by medical insurance, and long-term psychological treatment places a heavy financial burden on ordinary families. For an ordinary family living in Jiujiang, Jiangxi, this path is simply too difficult.
Family therapy is the third option. In China, this is virtually nonexistent. Family therapists are a scarce private service, expensive, and there are not enough practitioners in most second- and third-tier cities.
Community support is the fourth option. China’s community service system is essentially non-existent when it comes to adolescent mental health.
When all other options failed, a father searched online and came across an advertisement for Hongzhida.
How did this void come about? It is the result of a long-standing accumulation of policies that have concentrated educational resources on exam-oriented education, treated mental health as a dispensable “soft” need, and privatized the handling of family issues. The state has withdrawn from its rightful position, allowing the market to fill the gap.
The market’s method of filling this void is quite sophisticated. When the Siwei Growth Base opened in Jinjiang, Fujian, in 2022, Principal Xiang Mingsheng first applied to the Quanzhou Civil Affairs Bureau for public welfare accreditation as a “Minor Growth Guidance Service Center.” After obtaining approval, he relocated and reestablished the facility, hanging a sign indicating supervision by the Civil Affairs Bureau to recruit students. Ms. Wu paid 60,000 yuan on the spot, citing a single reason: since it was run by the government, it must be legitimate. The Civil Affairs Bureau later responded: “We had long required the center to close; we had no idea they had moved to a village in Jinjiang to set up this base.” The void left by the state’s inaction was filled by a counterfeit government sign. Over the course of two years, the Siwei Base abused at least eight adolescents. Among them, 14-year-old Xiao Wu was forced to stand all night, kneel while holding a basin of water, and was locked in a small, dark iron cage for 28 days, ultimately suffering a lifelong disability. On the night he was kicked and suffered a fracture, the principal called Ms. Wu, claiming the child had sustained a minor injury while running.
This is the “solution” the market has produced: violent confinement fills the void left by the absence of public services, while a government-issued sign satisfies parents’ need for trust.
III. The Conspiracy Is Complete
This is the most difficult yet most essential part of this article.
Before making the payment, Mr. Zhang knew he would be unable to contact his son for six months. He knew his son had been deceived into coming to the facility under the pretext of cooperating with an investigation into telecom fraud, yet the parents went along with this arrangement. They signed the agreement and paid the fees in good faith.
This constitutes a form of conspiracy.
Before using this term, its meaning must be clarified. Conspiracy does not equate to being the mastermind. Mr. Zhang had absolutely no intention of harming his son. His motivation was love—a last-ditch effort after running out of options in this society.
Yet the collusion is real, and it comprises three elements:
The first is cognitive narrowing under conditions of despair. Psychological research suggests that under extreme anxiety and stress, decision-making quality declines, risk assessments become distorted, and the desire for a solution overrides all caution. Before making payment, Mr. Zhang visited the facility in person. He saw the children playing ball and heard promises that there would be no physical punishment. However, filtered through his desperation, this information was reshaped into what he wanted to see. The clause stipulating no contact for six months—which should clearly have raised red flags—was accepted in his desperate state as a professional approach.
The second factor is the “it’s for your own good” culture. In mainstream Chinese parenting culture, disciplining children is inherently seen as an expression of love; strictness is a virtue, and suffering is a necessary cost of growth. “No pain, no gain” is a complete educational philosophy passed down through generations. When a facility tells parents, “We will educate your child through strict methods,” this cultural framework helps parents blur the line between strictness and violence.
The third factor is a deep internalization of the state’s logic of reform. This is the most hidden yet fundamental layer, and it plays a decisive role. Having lived for a long time within a social structure where “problem individuals can be detained and reformed, isolation can bring about transformation, and coercion is for the individual’s own good,” this mindset has unconsciously become common sense. It is not a written rule, but it exists in the air, breathed in by every generation. When Mr. Zhang considered sending his son to a closed facility, he did not realize that he was repeating a civilian version of the state’s reform techniques. He believed it was a voluntary choice.
And so, the conspiracy was complete. Through a logic as natural as breathing, a father who loved his child, within the bounds of the law, surrendered his child’s personal freedom to an institution that operated through violence.
Facing this reality is not meant to condemn Mr. Zhang, nor to diminish the responsibility of the homeroom teacher. Rather, it is to seek an urgent answer: what does the next desperate parent need to avoid walking down the same path?
IV. Where Lies the Way Forward?
The answer is actually clear: a professional support system; youth mental health services free from stigma; schools that genuinely fulfill a counseling role rather than focusing solely on grades; and community-based family support networks.
But these solutions face two major obstacles.
The first obstacle concerns resources and institutional frameworks. The aforementioned system requires sustained public investment, the training of professional personnel, and policies that prioritize mental health within the public health agenda. While these are not impossible, they demand a reordering of priorities.
The second obstacle runs deeper and is more difficult to overcome. As long as the state’s logic of “forcibly reforming problematic individuals” remains unchallenged, its civilian counterpart will always find fertile ground. Public services can alleviate the desperation of parents who feel they have nowhere else to turn, but they cannot completely erase the shaped perceptions of parents. A parent raised within this state-level logic will still tend to believe that coercion can change people, even when better options are available.
This is a cultural project that will take generations to complete, and its starting point is the willingness to confront the root causes of forced rehabilitation.
V. Two Notes
On Mother’s Day, the thank-you letter was sent, but the note asking for help was not.
The distance between these two notes is proof that a system is at work: it knows how to manage information, how to show the outside world only what it wants them to see, and how to suppress voices within a closed space.
This system was not established by a single “growth camp.” It was built by the market, endorsed by culture, sustained by institutional loopholes, and granted its final authorization through parents’ signatures and payments.
Zhang Hao’s right eye spent the night in darkness. That dark narrative was constructed by a cast of characters.
Editor: Huang Jizhou Proofreader: Xiong Bian Translator: Ge Bing
