In the vast tapestry of modern China’s education landscape, a hidden world is emerging in headlines around the globe: schools for “rebellious” teens that promise to cure truancy, internet addiction or defiance but, according to former students and investigative reports, too often deliver abduction, extreme discipline and abuse instead. These special training schools (特训学校, tèxùn xuéxiào) are marketed to desperate parents as life-changing programs where wayward youths can be “corrected,” but years of undercover reporting and testimony now paint a far darker picture of what happens behind their walls.
Imagine a world where a teenager is invited on a supposed “outing” then finds themselves in a compound miles from home, where staff posing as police officers claim authority to detain them with parental consent. That is the starting reality for at least thirteen young people interviewed in a recent BBC Eye investigation. These students say they were tricked, abducted and abused, forcibly transferred to institutions run by well-connected operators who advertise discipline and recovery but allegedly rely on intimidation, physical punishment and isolation to exert control. Former attendees described being beaten, forced into extreme exercise regimens and sexually assaulted by instructors—testimonies that have jolted audiences worldwide.
The phenomenon is not entirely new. These schools grew out of China’s early 2000s internet addiction camps (网瘾学校, wǎng yǐn xuéxiào), originally intended to address compulsive gaming and online behavior through regimented routines and counseling. Over time, however, the model shifted toward what critics call military-style boot camps—private, militaristic institutions that layer physical drills, forced labor and punitive rules over sparse academic or therapeutic support. Students are often aged 13–17 and subjected to daily runs of 10–15 kilometers, hundreds of squats and push-ups, and commands echoing sentiments like “Don’t escape” or “Obey for your own good,” according to investigative write-ups and participant accounts.
This rise reflects deep cultural and social anxieties in a society where academic performance and “proper” behaviour are seen as core virtues (xiào, 孝 for filial piety; jìnlǜ, 纪律 for discipline). Parents, overwhelmed by stories of bullying, truancy, and online addiction, often feel they have no choice but to seek drastic solutions. A tragic case widely reported in China found a 15-year-old boy sent to a “corrective education” center after stealing a small sum of money; as punishment he was forced to perform 1,000 deep squats, resulting in kidney failure and a frantic scramble for medical care. Such incidents underscore both the zeal for discipline and the potential human cost when oversight is lax.
Historical echoes of such practices can be found in Yuzhang Academy, a controversial institution in Jiangxi Province that claimed to focus on self-cultivation (修身, xiūshēn) and classical learning but was accused by students of corporal punishment, confinement in windowless cells and psychological coercion. While officially shut down after widespread public outcry and prosecutions of its directors, the underlying issues persist in other facilities that have filled the gap.
The tensions around these schools also intersect with broader debates in Chinese society about how to address juvenile delinquency and bullying. High-profile cases like the Jiangyou bullying incident in Sichuan, where a schoolgirl was viciously assaulted by other students and the perpetrators were later placed in corrective education, have sparked public debate over how the state and parents respond to youth misbehavior—and whether punitive measures do more harm than good.
Official responses have been mixed. China’s Ministry of Education has launched national campaigns to improve school discipline and clamp down on bullying, excessive homework and other “unruly” behavior in mainstream schools, stressing that all forms of bullying are forbidden and that teachers must be held accountable. Yet enforcement can vary at the local level, and private tèxùn xuéxiào operate in a regulatory grey zone where demand outpaces oversight.
For many Western readers, the idea of sending a teenager to a “boot camp” or discipline school might evoke reality show tropes or dramatized retreats, but in China these institutions are part of a complex social ecosystem—born from concerns about youth addiction and behavior, sustained by parental anxiety, and criticized by educators and rights advocates for methods that may violate children’s physical and psychological well-being. Balancing cultural norms around obedience and achievement with the need to protect young people’s rights is an ongoing challenge that Chinese society continues to grapple with, even as stories from these schools force uncomfortable questions onto the national stage.
Spicy Auntie is furious. Not the theatrical, eye-rolling kind of fury I usually reserve for clueless politicians or hypocritical pundits, but the cold, steady rage that comes when adults systematically harm children and call it “love.” These so-called schools for “rebellious” teens in China are not schools. They are not therapy. They are not education. They are warehouses for fear, violence, and adult failure dressed up as discipline.
Let’s be very clear: abducting teenagers, breaking them down with military drills, humiliation, beatings, and isolation is not jìnlǜ (纪律, discipline). It is abuse. Full stop. You do not cure anxiety, depression, anger, or internet addiction by terrorizing a child’s body until their mind shuts down. You do not teach responsibility by removing dignity. You do not create “good citizens” by normalizing violence as authority.
And here is the part that makes Auntie especially mad: these places exist because parents want them to exist. Parents who are overwhelmed, yes. Parents who are afraid, maybe. But also parents who want obedience without conversation, control without listening, results without responsibility. If your teenage child is “rebellious,” have you tried—radical idea—talking to them? Or examining the pressure cooker of expectations, exams, social media panic, and emotional neglect that produced that rebellion in the first place?
So here’s my proposal, and I mean it with love and venom in equal measure. If these boot camps must stay open, then send the parents. All of them. The ones who sign consent forms while averting their eyes. The ones who say “it’s for their own good.” Put them through 15-kilometer runs. Make them squat until their knees give out. Lock them in silent rooms with slogans about obedience taped to the walls. Let’s see how long their faith in “tough love” lasts when it’s their body and psyche on the line.
Because rebellion is not a disease. It is a signal. A teenager pushing back is often saying, “I am overwhelmed,” “I am scared,” “I am unheard,” or “I am being crushed.” Crushing them harder is not treatment; it is cowardice outsourced to a violent system.
China does not lack discipline. It lacks space for emotional literacy, youth mental health care, and honest conversations about what success, failure, and growing up actually look like in a hyper-competitive society. You want strong young people? Teach empathy. Teach boundaries without brutality. Teach adults to parent without fear.
Until then, Auntie says this loudly and without apology: anyone who thinks beating obedience into a child is education should sign themselves up first.