It began with accusations over the phone. “You journalists only know how to use sensational stories to draw attention. You don’t care about our pain,” Xieyu Wu’s uncle shouted, his voice raw with anger and despair. 

On that June day in 2023, I sat at my desk interning for Southern Metropolis Daily, an influential Pearl River Delta newspaper. I realized I was about to enter one of the most emotionally charged interviews of my fledgling career. 

The Prodigy’s Fall

Xieyu Wu was once hailed as a prodigy. In high school, he consistently topped his class, and in 2012, he nearly secured admission to Peking University’s School of Economics via an independent exam designed to spotlight China’s brightest minds. But by 2015, his promising future had disintegrated, and he was accused of murdering his mother and then wrapping her body in layers of bedsheets, plastic, and activated carbon to obscure the scent of decomposition.

Wu’s life became a national spectacle. The ensuing trial, punctuated by revelations of lavish spending fueled by a 1.44 million yuan (approximately $201,000) loan intended for overseas education, captivated the nation until his execution in January 2024.

Wu himself remained silent to the media. Instead, his family bore the brunt of public scrutiny. Through his uncle, one of the few voices willing to break the imposed silence, I sought insight into the personal dimensions behind the headline-grabbing case.

An Unprecedented Tense Interview Reveals a Family Pain

When I finally got the call, the conversation quickly turned intense. During our first session, a 50-minute conversation was later extended by another 30 minutes. 

“The media twists everything,” he said. “They cherry-pick details and don’t care how we feel.”

“I completely understand your mistrust,” I tried to ease the tension. “I’m here to listen. What would you like people to know about your family?”

He scoffed. “Know? They only see headlines. They label us without knowing the truth,” his voice quieter but laced with sorrow. “Every time I see those articles, I feel like our pain is just a story to them.”

I pressed gently, “Could you share an example of something you feel was misrepresented?”

After a moment, he replied, “They write about a ‘fallen genius’ without mentioning the immense pressure he was under. They never talk about the constant family disputes, the silent suffering, or how every word published feels like a new betrayal.”

At one point, I asked, “Do you think anything positive can come from all this attention?”

He almost laughed bitterly. “I just want people to understand that behind every sensational headline, there’s real heartbreak.”

Perception, Pain, and Responsibility

I soon managed to calm down, though I was only 20 at the time, a fact the interviewees would never suspect. “I completely understand your mistrust of the media, but please know that our outlets take journalistic ethics and fairness very seriously,” I assured Wu’s uncle, doing my utmost to defuse his anger. He had never even read the articles I had written during my internship at the newspaper.

Wu’s uncle was angry about how the media portrayed Wu. He argued that many reports focused on Wu’s reckless spending on prostitutes while overlooking his past as a brilliant student. He criticized these articles for often framing the case with simple labels like “the fall of a prodigy” or “a family tragedy.” 

He paused momentarily before replying, “I think it’s society’s responsibility as a whole.” 

His answer caught me off guard, and then he continued in a low, measured tone, “His father’s extramarital affair left him with a warped aversion to sex as if sex were sinful. Yet, the raw longing of adolescence made it impossible for him to deny his desires completely. Once he had the money, he sought revenge by visiting prostitutes.” His voice tinged with bitter resignation.

Wu’s mother, Tianqin Xie, having suffered the betrayal of her husband, developed a compulsive obsession with purity. This left Wu with an intense yet unspoken sexual yearning. 

“When he smashed that dumbbell into her head, it was, in my eyes, an attempt to shatter the chains of a stifling, oppressive life and to charge headlong into a life of unrestrained passion.”

I hesitated; those were my interpretations and impressions, but I needed confirmation. “Could you describe what life was like before everything changed?” I asked, careful not to overstep. At that moment, I longed to unearth every hidden truth. Yet, my commitment to journalistic ethics cautioned me: respecting the interviewee’s pain must always outweigh the relentless pursuit of every detail.

When Rationality and Emotion Collide

“I hope the law will show mercy and let my nephew live,” Wu’s uncle said.

I hesitated, unsure how to respond. His plea — aimed at preserving the family’s last bloodline, despite that bloodline including a man who had murdered his mother — put me in a difficult position.

As a journalist, I was expected to remain objective and seek the truth without judgment. Yet sitting across from a grieving relative pleading for clemency, I found it impossible to remain detached.

Xieyu Wu’s crime was calculated. After killing his mother, he convinced himself that she was still alive, constructing an elaborate fantasy in which they lived together in the United States — he as a student at MIT, and his mother as a teacher at a Chinese school in Boston. This was not just a way to escape reality; it was a carefully designed lie that deceived his family, earning their trust and financial support.

Yet, from Wu’s uncle’s perspective, the situation looked entirely different. After the murder, the family fractured. Wu’s mother’s family demands justice. On the other hand, his father’s relatives clung to the hope of preserving their bloodline.

I could sense that he was beginning to trust me. He was opening up, but his reasoning was rooted in family lineage rather than a deeper reflection on the crime itself. At times, his request unsettled me. It made me wonder whether I should keep pushing forward or take a step back.

“Xieyu was deeply pessimistic and had thoughts of suicide. After his father passed away, he believed his mother had lost the meaning of life,” he said, referencing the court’s findings, which were echoed in various media reports.

He then offered his own perspective. “I have always believed that society is to blame. The lack of sexual literacy education was the final blow that crushed a young man.”

I don’t entirely disagree. I, too, believed that the failure to address mental health, the dysfunction of family dynamics, and the pressure of societal expectations could lead to the destruction of a person’s inner world.

In 2004, Jiajue Ma — a top student at Yunnan University — brutally murdered his roommate after his roommates discovered his secret: he had visited prostitutes and watched pornographic tapes, a fact he couldn’t bear to have exposed. Lacking proper sex literacy education, Ma saw only one way out: erasing those who knew his shame.

But that wasn’t an excuse for murder. Countless people face immense pressure, yet not all choose the most extreme way to escape it.

What truly shook me was what Wu’s uncle said next. “My mother — Wu’s grandmother — heard about the case while grocery shopping. The shock was too much for her, and she passed away in 2019. We don’t want to lose the only male heir of our family too.”

At that moment, my sense of professionalism felt like it was teetering on the edge.

I believed Wu’s crime was unforgivable, yet I couldn’t let that judgment color my reporting. Journalism ethics dictate that I respect my interviewee’s emotions and allow them the space to express themselves. But every word he spoke felt like an appeal, a calculated attempt to use the media to sway public opinion.

Was I being manipulated? Was my reporting serving as a vehicle for his cause?

This interview was no longer just a test of my journalistic skills; it was a test of my fundamental beliefs about journalism itself.

Journalistic ethics do not demand cold detachment but require that a reporter maintain control over their emotions. If I followed his narrative, my article would become a piece of emotional persuasion rather than objective reporting. But if I pushed back too hard, the interview might end altogether, and I would walk away with nothing.

Dilemmas and Breakthroughs

I took a deep breath, adjusted my tone, and asked, “If you had the chance to speak to Wu again, what would you say to him?”

The question lingered in the air and a long silence followed.

“I don’t know what I would say … maybe I’d ask him if he regrets it,” he finally replied. His voice was slow, as if he had never considered the question, or perhaps he was carefully measuring his words.

Regret — would it matter? If Wu regretted what he had done, could that change anything? The law does not weigh remorse as it does evidence; consequences remain, just as a wound persists even after the blade is withdrawn.

And if he felt no regret? What would that reveal? Would it indicate a complete detachment from morality, a mind driven solely by logic, devoid of emotion?

I realized that this interview was slipping beyond my control. Was I supposed to be a passive observer, or did I have a responsibility to engage? I was not just a listener; I was a journalist. 

“If he truly regrets it, what do you hope society will do for him?” I asked. This time, I didn’t soften my words.

There was another long pause. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I know he has committed terrible crimes. I know he must pay for what he did … but I hope society can see that he wasn’t born a monster.”

That was the most crucial sentence of the entire interview. It led me to a bigger question: How do we define evil?

If someone commits an unspeakable crime, does that mean they have completely lost their humanity? Should we seek to understand what led them to that moment rather than just condemning the final act?

This was the ethical dilemma I faced throughout the interview.

If journalism is only about coldly presenting the facts, “Xieyu Wu murdered his mother. Here are the details.” Then it is little more than a collection of data, providing information but not insight.

But if journalism dares to ask why, to examine the psychological, familial, and societal forces at play, does that mean we are excusing the crime? I feared that my reporting would be misinterpreted as sympathizing with the perpetrator while ignoring the suffering of the victim.

Yet I also feared that my hesitation, my reluctance to delve deeper, would cause me to miss a crucial truth: that no crime happens in isolation. That behind every heinous act is a story of a person shaped by their environment, experiences, and choices.

“Do you think society destroyed him, or did he destroy himself?” I finally asked. And in that moment, I wasn’t just asking him. I was asking myself.

Journalism requires facts. But beyond the facts, don’t journalists also need to think?

I ended the interview and closed my notebook, but my thoughts remained restless. How should I write this story? Should it merely be a recounting of the case, or should it attempt to go deeper?

In the end, my editor decided for me. Because of the case’s sensitivity, my final article was a straightforward news report: “Xieyu Wu’s appeal rejected, death sentence upheld.” There was no analysis, no reflection. My job wasn’t to conduct a psychological study; I was a 20-year-old intern, and this was not my place.

Still, two years later, I find myself returning to that conversation and staring at the blank space in my mind where an answer should have been.

Maybe there isn’t one.