Minutes before He Yu planned to head out for a simple evening stroll with her infant son in southern China’s metropolis of Shenzhen, her phone buzzed with a short, unsettling message. “We’re not going out tonight. A child died,” her husband wrote, leaving her momentarily frozen.

She quickly scanned the news on her phone, piecing together the horrific details.

Earlier that day, on Sept. 18, a 10-year-old boy had been brutally stabbed on his way to school in southwestern Shenzhen — just 200 meters from the school gate. Despite immediate medical attention, the boy, a Japanese student, succumbed to his injuries early the next morning.

For He, the tragedy struck an especially raw nerve. Her Japanese husband and their young son made the loss hit even harder. As her husband’s words, “It’s so unfair to harm a child,” lingered in her mind, the reality of the attack became impossible to ignore.

As well as leaving parents across the city shaken, the boy’s death especially sent shockwaves through Shenzhen’s Shekou Industrial Zone, where the stabbing took place, a community known for its international schools and large expat population.

The attack follows a similar incident in eastern China’s Suzhou in June, when a Chinese school bus chaperone, Hu Youping, was fatally stabbed while protecting a Japanese student and his mother.

And yet, in official reports, victims are often reduced to an identity or a label. In reality, they are someone’s child, a neighbor, or a companion — vivid, alive, and irreplaceable.

The attack

The police report issued by the Nanshan Branch of the Shenzhen Public Security Bureau confirmed the grim details: “At around 8 a.m. on Sept. 18, a passerby was attacked with a knife in Zhaoshang Subdistrict, resulting in injuries to a minor.”

Police said they had arrested the suspect, identified as a male surnamed Zhong, at the scene and assisted in transporting the injured boy to the hospital.

Nearby residents tried to piece together the events of that morning, recalling the chaos that followed the attack.

The Shenzhen Japanese School, where the victim was enrolled, sits in an area labeled one of the city’s child-friendly districts for its parks, libraries, and public nursing rooms. It is home to several schools and kindergartens, nestled among residential neighborhoods.

Zhang Ping, a local resident, was walking her daughter to a nearby middle school at 7 a.m. that day when she saw a group of students from the Japanese school, accompanied by their mothers, heading toward the campus.

As they walked along the road, just a stone’s throw away from the school gate, a man with a knife suddenly attacked, stabbing a boy who had been walking on the outer edge of the group.

Zhou Xin, a convenience store clerk who had worked the overnight shift, recalls hearing a cry. Stepping outside, she saw a woman wailing on the side of the road, blood pooling beside her.

Nearby, a few bystanders stood speaking Japanese, a language Zhou didn’t understand. The attack had occurred near a police station and the border control department, so officers arrived at the scene quickly. Later, as Zhou finished her shift and walked past, she saw the area cordoned off by police.

Ma Xiaopeng, head of the medical treatment team and president of Shenzhen Children’s Hospital, told domestic media that the victim succumbed to his injuries at 1:36 a.m. on Sept. 19. Later that evening, Ministry of Foreign Affairs spokesman Lin Jian confirmed that the boy was of Japanese nationality, with a Japanese father and a Chinese mother.

By the following evening, the streets were calm once again, though the Shenzhen Japanese School remained closed.

At home, He and her husband, who requested anonymity citing privacy concerns, were still gripped by anger and sorrow. “How could this happen? We’re devastated,” her husband said. She tried to comfort him, but as a mother of a 1-year-old, couldn’t shake her own feelings of fear and grief.

Community in shock

The next morning, the shock and anger had spread far beyond Shenzhen.

Just 500 meters from the school, Liu Shuang, the owner of a local flower shop, was arranging white daisies and yellow sunflowers. Since the incident, her shop had received nearly 30 flower orders from across the country — Nanjing, Beijing, Shanghai — each sent to honor the victim.

“Many of them were fathers,” Liu recalled. When a friend first told her about the attack, she refused to believe it. “I thought it was impossible; I even cursed at her.” After running her shop for 14 years, she had never seen anything like this. But with each new order, the grim reality set in.

Zhou Xin often saw Japanese children from the nearby school stopping by her convenience store. “Even though some spoke fluent Chinese, you could still recognize them as Japanese,” she recalled. To Zhou and other shopkeepers in the neighborhood, the children were always polite, standing up straight, and frequently buying rice balls.

Though Liu didn’t interact much with the Japanese community, she was always impressed by the children who visited her flower shop every year on Japanese Teachers' Day. “They’re just like us,” she said, “all very polite.”

The children spoke fluent Chinese, always saying xiexie (thank you) with a smile. When Liu dropped her own child to school, she often saw Japanese children and their parents along the way. Even if they didn’t know each other well, they always exchanged a polite nod.

Just a block from the school, Xia Meng, a barista at a local coffee shop, said Japanese students often dropped by her store for a drink. Her shop was decorated with figures from the popular manga and anime series “One Piece,” and every time the children saw them, they would excitedly call out, “Luffy, Luffy!” “Luffy is my favorite too,” Xia would reply with a smile.

She kept two ginger cats in the store, and the children would always ask in careful Chinese, “Can I pet them?” They were thrilled when given permission, gently stroking the cats and exclaiming, “So cute!”

Xia thought about posting her anger about the incident online but decided against it. “Pouring out anger doesn’t help,” she said, shaking her head. Instead, she planned to leave a bunch of flowers, hoping the child would feel warmth in another world.

By noon that day, the north entrance of the school was already crowded with people, each carrying flowers to honor the victim.

Zhao Ya, a mother of three from the neighborhood, arrived early with her own bouquet. The incident had shaken her deeply. “I’ve lived here for many years. It’s always been safe, and it’s hard to believe something like this could happen,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion.

Another mourner, carrying two bunches of flowers, explained that a friend who had studied in Japan had asked her to bring a bouquet. As people gathered, someone pointed out the spot to place the flowers, and the crowd murmured in agreement. “The child was too innocent,” one person said softly. “Something like this shouldn’t happen anywhere.”

Murmurs

For He Yu, the grief was compounded by a growing sense of frustration. Emotions, she knew, would eventually fade, but suspicions were starting to emerge.

The Shekou Industrial Zone, long a hub for foreigners in Shenzhen, had always been home to international schools, where expat families lived and worked alongside locals.

But in the wake of the attack, familiar questions reemerged online: “What exactly is a Japanese school?” or “I’ve lived here for years and never even knew there was one.”

According to He, such questions weren’t new. She became aware of Japanese schools after her husband got a job at one, working there as a teacher for four years.

Attending gatherings with his coworkers, she realized that these schools were a normal part of life for expatriate families. In cities like Shanghai or the southern Guangdong province, where many Japanese companies are based, corporate executives are often sent to China for three-year stints, bringing their families along rather than leaving them behind in Japan.

The Japanese schools provide a transition for these children. “After three years, they go back to Japan for high school and university, so they attend schools here that follow the Japanese education system,” He explained.

These schools are largely non-profit, and their tuition is much lower than that of other international schools. She also underscored that there are Chinese schools in Yokohama, Japan, she knows of, serving a similar purpose for Chinese expatriates.

Regulations prohibit local Chinese from attending Japanese schools. He Yu explained that aside from a few Chinese language classes taught by Chinese teachers, the rest of the staff are Japanese nationals sent from Japan, and all courses are conducted in Japanese.

The schools also maintain strict management and security measures. For instance, if parents need to deliver something to their children, they cannot enter the school without prior reporting and permission.

Throughout the Shekou Industrial Zone, residents pointed out that Japanese schools had long played a vital role in the area’s development. “Shekou is known as being business-friendly for a reason,” one resident explained. “When Sanyo arrived, it shaped the Shekou we know today.” 

In the 1980s, the Japanese electronics giant built factories, providing jobs for both local and migrant workers. By the 2000s, as more Japanese companies moved in, Shekou evolved into a key economic hub in Shenzhen.

As these businesses flourished, Japanese schools became part of the fabric of the community. Established in 2008 by the Shenzhen Japanese Chamber of Commerce and Industry, the Shenzhen Japanese School now serves 273 students across nine grades, from elementary through junior high.

The school’s anthem reflects the spirit of the area: “Ships pass through Shekou’s port, and dreamers gather in the light, their hearts full of hope, setting sail for the world.”

Lingering fears

As He’s family processed the tragedy, their conversations have gradually shifted from grief to worry.

Her husband worried that this wasn’t just about one child’s life being lost, but about how the fallout from such incidents might ripple through the lives of ordinary people across the city. Meanwhile, online discussions were starting to hint at a growing sense of mistrust.

Addressing the concerns, Ministry of Foreign Affairs spokesman Lin Jian stated that the Sept. 18 attack was an isolated incident. Lin emphasized that China remains open to people from all countries — welcoming them to visit, study, work, and live in the country. Lin reassured that China would continue to take effective measures to ensure the safety of foreign citizens.

But for He, what weighed on her more was the eerie similarity between her family and the victim’s — a Chinese mother, a Japanese father, and a young child. Like any parent, she and her husband worried daily about their child’s safety and the path his life would take. “We focus on real people,” He said. “Not abstract, distant ideas.”

He Yu met her husband in 2017 at a friend’s party. Unlike the more reserved nature often associated with Japanese people, her husband was outgoing and enjoyed meeting new people. At the time, he had just developed a love for Chinese cuisine and culture, and the two quickly bonded over their shared interests. Three years later, they were married.

Whenever she joined his family for dinner, the table would be filled with cooked fire-roasted sushi. This surprised her, as her husband had once mentioned that his family disliked cooked sushi, preferring the freshness of sashimi. Only later did He realize that her mother-in-law, knowing that Chinese typically favor cooked food, was trying to make her feel welcome and cared for.

Though her child is only 1 year old, He, like many Chinese mothers, has already begun planning for his future education. “We’re considering an international school,” she said. Families like hers have several options: Chinese public schools, Japanese schools, or international schools.

While the latter is more expensive, it aligns better with He’s hopes for her son’s future compared to the more relaxed atmosphere of the Japanese schools.

She sighed as she considered the reality for many Japanese expats like her husband. Though many return to Japan after a few years, more and more are choosing to settle in China, putting down roots and raising families.

“They’re just regular people,” He said, “hoping for a better future in this city, surrounded by the people they care about.” Her greatest fear is that this sense of belonging and hope could eventually disappear.

(He Yu, Zhang Ping, Zhou Xin, Liu Shuang, and Xia Meng are pseudonyms.)

A version of this article originally appeared in Jiefang Daily. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Eunice Ouyang; editors: Wang Juyi and Apurva.

(Header image: A mourner places toys alongside flowers outside the Shenzhen Japanese School in Guangdong province, Sept. 20, 2024. Liang Xiashun/VCG)