Li-Ming Zhang

In the quiet outskirts of Beijing, China, I grew up as a shadow, a ghost among the living. My name was rarely spoken beyond the walls of our home, and my existence was a secret the state wasn’t supposed to know. My mother had fled to a neighboring village when she discovered she was pregnant with me. The one-child policy loomed over us, and with my older sister already born, I had no place in the official records. My birth was hidden in the house of family friends, far from prying eyes.

When we returned to our suburb, life never resumed its normal rhythm. My parents were fined for bringing me into the world, a sum they couldn’t pay. They borrowed, sacrificed, but even after handing over the money, no passport came. I remained invisible—no right to school, no right to anything.

Each day, I watched my sister walk to school in her uniform, her backpack filled with books that I craved to touch. She knew the ache in my heart, and each evening she’d share her lessons with me. We sat by candlelight, whispering the words I wasn’t allowed to learn. In those moments, I felt alive—like maybe I wasn’t just a shadow after all.

The local library became my refuge. Using my sister’s card, I spent hours there, getting lost in legal books. That’s where I found the law—an old 1958 statute that promised me a passport. I thought I’d found my way out, so I took my case to court. But the world isn’t kind to those who don’t officially exist. My petition was denied, and no lawyer would stand with me.

As the years passed, I discovered I wasn’t alone. There were millions of shadow children like me, born into a system that exploited families through fines and threats. We were the ones who lived in the margins, unseen by the law.

Now, at 33, things are different. The policy is gone, and a few years ago, I was finally given my passport. Holding that small piece of paper in my hands felt like holding my entire life. Today, I have a job, a husband, and soon, I’ll have a child of my own—one who won’t live in the shadows.