Li Yuchen | Zhang Koukou has been gone for seven years, and his father’s phone is still in jail

By Li Yuchen

On July 17, 2019, Zhang Koukou was executed in Hanzhong, Shaanxi. He killed three people for his mother, who had been beaten to death twenty-two years earlier. The law said he deserved to die, and he had no objections.

Seven years later, his father, Zhang Furu’s, phone still couldn’t make a call.

To understand this, we need to start from the beginning.

In 1996, Zhang Koukou’s mother, Wang Xiuping, had a conflict with her neighbor’s family, the Wangs. Wang Zhengjun—then seventeen years old—hit Wang Xiuping on the head with a wooden stick, and she died that night. What made the Zhang family even more unbearable was what happened afterward: the forensic doctor dissected the body on the road in front of the Zhang family’s door in front of the whole village. Thirteen-year-old Zhang Koukou knelt beside her, watching his mother being opened up.

His sister later said in an interview with CCTV:

“Many people made false testimonies, do you know why? Because they were officials.”

Wang Zhengjun was sentenced to seven years. He actually served three years and was released. The compensation was nine thousand six hundred and thirty-nine yuan and three cents. Zhang Furu appealed for many years, but each time it was like a stone sinking into the sea. The district court did not file the case, the Intermediate Court rejected the appeal, and the state compensation was not accepted.

The law closed all doors on the Zhang family.

On New Year’s Eve twenty-two years later, Zhang Koukou waited on the mountain for the Wang family to return from ancestor worship and killed Wang Zhengjun, Wang Xiaojun, and Wang Zixin. Wang Zixin, seventy-one years old, Wang Xiaojun, forty-seven years old, and Wang Zhengjun, thirty-nine years old—not one was left. But he didn’t touch any of the Wang family’s women and children.

Two days later, he surrendered.

The first trial sentenced him to death, the second trial upheld the sentence, and the Supreme People’s Court approved it. Executed on July 17, 2019. The whole process was clean and efficient, and the law was very efficient this time.

Zhang Furu refused to take back his son’s ashes. He said:

“I don’t want them, I never want them!”

An old man, first lost his wife, then lost his son, the legal procedures were all completed, and the case was completely closed. According to the logic of any normal country, the story should end here.

But here, the case can be closed, but the control of people will not end.

Zhang Furu lives alone in Wangping Village, Xinjizhen, Nanzheng District, Hanzhong. It’s been seven years. Zhang Koukou’s old squad leader in the army, a comrade-in-arms older than him, visits the old man almost every year. There is a video on Bilibili, with 490,000 views. A lonely old man who has lost his wife and son, whose only regular visitor is his son’s old squad leader.

This picture itself is already distressing enough. But what’s truly absurd is another thing:

According to Zhang Furu’s own account in the video, his phone has been restricted from communication.

Let’s see what the Constitution says. Article 40 of the Constitution reads as follows:

“The freedom and secrecy of citizens’ communications are protected by law. Except for the needs of national security or the investigation of criminal offenses, the public security organs or procuratorial organs shall, in accordance with the procedures prescribed by law, inspect communications. No organization or individual may infringe upon the freedom and secrecy of citizens’ communications for any reason.”

This paragraph is worth reading word for word.

The legal conditions for restricting citizens’ freedom of communication are clearly written in the Constitution, a total of two: national security, or the investigation of criminal offenses. The organs with the power to enforce are also clearly written: public security organs and procuratorial organs. It must also be “in accordance with the procedures prescribed by law”. The Legislative Affairs Commission of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress has specifically explained that the restriction of freedom of communication “is limited to the special circumstances explicitly stipulated in the Constitution”, which the academic community calls “increased legal reservation”—even higher than the general level of protection of basic rights.

Now let’s compare Zhang Furu’s situation.

What crime did Zhang Furu himself commit? None. Is he a criminal suspect? No. Does it involve national security? The phone of a rural, solitary old man involves national security, and even the person who says it doesn’t believe it. Investigating criminal offenses? Zhang Koukou’s case has been completed for seven years, from investigation, prosecution, first trial, second trial to death sentence review and execution. What else needs to be investigated? Investigating a dead person?

In other words, the two legal conditions listed in Article 40 of the Constitution are not relevant.

So why restrict his communication?

The answer is known to everyone:

Stability.

The two words “stability” have a very special status in the governance logic here—it is not an administrative measure prescribed by any law, does not appear in any legal article, has no statutory procedures, no approval process, no time limit, and no channels for redress. But it can restrict your communication, restrict your travel, and restrict your personal freedom. It works better than the Constitution.

This is not just Zhang Furu’s experience.

In December 2025, the WeChat public account “Yuan Weidong Case” of the family of Hebei’s Yuan Weidong was banned from speaking until the end of 2026. Yuan Weidong had passed away a year earlier—after being detained for 8,507 days, he died in the intensive care unit of Baoding First Central Hospital. The person is dead, but the account still has to be banned. His wife, Li Jie, hid in her quilt late at night and copied the 297 articles from the public account one by one to the draft box of the new account. She was not afraid of the darkness, but the delete button in the background could erase 24 years of records at any time.

An account that hasn’t been updated for a month or two was precisely silenced for a year on the eve of its anniversary. This operation is like saying to a person in a vegetative state: I order you not to speak.

In 2023, the Legislative Affairs Commission of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress explicitly stopped a batch of “guilt by association” regulations in the record review—some local regulations stipulate that the children of criminals cannot take the civil service examination, cannot join the army, and cannot be teachers. Zhou Shihong, a member of the National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, said at the two sessions that the practice of one person’s crime affecting the children and relatives “should be completely abandoned”. The legal community calls this “consequences of crime”, which is, in short, a modern version of collective punishment.

Collective punishment has been stopped at the legal level. But what about in reality?

Zhang Furu has no criminal record, is not a suspect, is not a defendant, and is not a person serving a sentence. His only “problem” is that his son’s name is Zhang Koukou. Because of this, his freedom of communication has been restricted for seven years. Li Jie’s “problem” is that her husband’s name is Yuan Weidong. Because of this, the public account that recorded her husband’s wrongful case was banned from speaking for a year after his death.

In the past two years, due to the “protective shutdown” of anti-fraud big data models, the phones of a large number of ordinary people have been inexplicably shut down. According to reports from The Paper, some people found their phones shut down after hiking back to China from Nepal, and were unable to contact anyone in the sub-zero temperatures of the foot of Mount Everest; some doctors found their numbers shut down for more than twenty days after coming down from the operating table. Anti-fraud shutdowns at least have a name, and although it’s absurd, at least you can complain to customer service and go to the business hall to reactivate.

Zhang Furu’s phone is restricted from communication, and there isn’t even a name. Li Jie’s public account was banned from speaking, and there was only a cold notification, without even giving the specific reason. No one told them why, no one gave them a window for appeal, and no one needed to be responsible for this.

The pattern is the same: the case is over—Zhang Koukou has been dead for seven years, and Yuan Weidong has also been dead for a year—but the control of the family members has no end. It’s not because you committed a crime, it’s because your existence itself is a signal that needs to be silenced. You are alive, you still remember, that’s enough.

Even if—I say even if—there is some “reasonable administrative consideration” to restrict Zhang Furu’s communication, then may I ask: What is the time limit? Where is the approval procedure? To which organ can he appeal? Has anyone told him why your phone is restricted, how long it will be restricted, and what rights you have?

No. Nothing at all.

This is the most ingenious part of this logic: it doesn’t need a reason, it doesn’t need a procedure, it doesn’t need a time limit, it doesn’t need to be informed, and it doesn’t need anyone to be responsible for it. It permeates Zhang Furu’s life like air. You can’t tell who gave the order, but your phone just can’t make a call.

Article 40 of the Constitution is written there, in black and white, and not a single word has been changed. But it can’t protect Zhang Furu. Just as the 1996 judgment couldn’t protect Wang Xiuping, just as Zhang Furu’s appeals couldn’t protect his family, just as the nine thousand six hundred and thirty-nine yuan and three cents in compensation twenty-two years ago—couldn’t protect anyone.

When Zhang Koukou was executed in 2019, the law showed amazing efficiency: from arrest to execution, it took less than a year and a half. This efficiency is awe-inspiring.

But the same legal system, for a case in 1996 where a seventeen-year-old boy beat someone to death with a wooden stick, gave the answer of seven years (actually three years) and nine thousand six hundred and thirty-nine yuan and three cents. For Zhang Furu’s appeals over many years, the answer was not to file the case, to reject it, and not to accept it. For his most basic freedom of communication as a citizen, the answer was—silence.

The law is slow when it should be fast, and fast when it should be slow. It is absent when it should protect people, and it is silent when it should restrain power.

Zhang Koukou killed and paid with his life, there is nothing to argue about. Private revenge is not allowed in any modern country under the rule of law. But before a person gets to the point of taking a knife and killing someone, where is the law? A mother was beaten to death, a forensic doctor dissected her on the street, the judgment was as light as a feather, the compensation was not enough to buy a cow, and the appeals for twenty years were like a stone sinking into the sea—in this whole process, what role did the law play?

Luo Xiang is right: mankind’s pursuit of justice must be under the rules.

The problem is, who answers whether the rules themselves are fair?

Article 40 of the Constitution lies quietly in the fundamental law, like a garment that has never been worn. It protects freedom of communication, protects the secrecy of communication, “no organization or individual may infringe for any reason”.

Zhang Furu probably hasn’t read the Constitution. But even if he did, what could he do. His son also tried to believe in the law back then.

Zhang Koukou has been gone for seven years. He paid the price of his life for his choice. According to the law, this account has been settled.

But Zhang Furu is still alive. A rural old man in his seventies, living alone in the mountain village of Hanzhong, without his wife, without his son, and didn’t even want the ashes back. His only “crime” is: he is Zhang Koukou’s father.

For this crime, his phone is serving a sentence with no time limit.

Li Yuchen’s article stands in the dust

Written on February 24, 2026

This article has opened quick reposting, and you are welcome to repost it to your public account

Archive to prevent deletion, relay and spread

Please include the appreciation picture at the end of the article when reprinting, and respect the fruits of labor

Friends who are willing to help me publish articles on my public account, please read this article 

Solicit public accounts, insist on writing and speaking out