Monday through Friday night, from 8:00 to 9:00, a large portion of Taiwan's television viewers are tuned into Judge Pao, the island's most popular drama series. Every week, corrupt officials, rapacious businessmen, philandering husbands, cruel mothers-in-law, or murderous ruffians are brought to justice after a complex investigation by the good judge and his loyal staff of guards and advisors. The programs are based on the centuries-old reputation of Pao Cheng (999-1062), also known as Pao Chingtien, a wise and incorruptible official during the Sung dynasty.
An often repeated scene in the series rarely fails to send uneasy chills through the audience: those who appear in court must state their cases while kneeling on a rough stone floor between two rows of court officers bearing heavy bamboo rods and other instruments used for punishment. At the front, on a raised dais and surrounded by symbols of office,the majestically clothed judge sits with a fierce expression darkening his face. To signal the start of the hearing, the court officers call out wei-wu (威武) in low, drawn-out syllables. This can be translated as "the court will come to order," but it has the distinct undertones of "speak the truth, fools, or have the tar beat out of you."
The audience knows that the truth will eventually be extracted by astute questioning, not by beating, even though the latter was an often-used method of eliciting confessions in traditional times. For the guilty people under Judge Pao's glare, this is a time of tribulation if not abject fear.
Why is this series so popular? There is more to the high ratings than good scripts, cast, and production. The program is a hit, social critics say, because the good guys al ways win and the bad guys always lose—even if the guilty ones are powerful and well-connected officials. The law does not bend for high rank; in fact, iris even more severe toward those who violate the public trust. Likewise, the law reaches down to the lowliest culprit as well.
Although Judge Pao has become an idealized figure, his character is appealing because he has high principles and is ready to sacrifice his official position or even his life to uphold them. In traditional times he was called a chiin-tzu (君子); today he would be called a role model. This is perhaps one reason the drama series is compelling. People are a bit nostalgic about having upright, principled role models—and today's youth are in desperate need of them. Rapid social change in recent years has broken down the old structure of the extended family, which was a safety net for kids in danger of sliding into trouble. Weakened also is the traditional ethical emphasis on building character through learning how to fulfill one's obligations in a complex web of family and social relationships. Modern society is a pressure cooker full of new problems, and kids in particular need help in facing them.
Taiwan's kids are on an ethical slippery slope because they are surrounded by people who exhibit a declining respect for the law. Juvenile delinquency—defined by one local social scientist as kids who regularly break the laws, regulations, and codes set up by society—is definitely increasing. But take the "kids" out of this definition; juvenile delinquency may be on the rise, but so is adult delinquency. It is difficult to combat juvenile delinquency when a large portion of adult society regularly ignores legal and ethical norms. Too many people seem to think that laws are for the other guy. This has always been a problem, but it has become more serious as more people abuse their new political freedoms, especially for economic gain.
What do kids think when they are surrounded by people, including friends and relatives, who blatantly disregard traffic and parking rules, regularly cheat on income taxes, and make big and fast bucks through insider trading, bribery, and illegal businesses and construction? What do they think when they see business people and government officials colluding and taking advantage of their position to gain wealth—and if they are caught, get off with the legal equivalent of a slap on the wrist?
The answer is sobering. Kids aren't aghast, they're taking notes. If contemporary society is based on a loose system of "unearned rewards," which means that personal connections, insider trading, and political pull are more important than ethics, then these rules had better be learned. The evidence is already in: more kids are learning, and they are putting their knowledge into practice.
But most kids-and adults-are still high up on that slippery slope into lawless ness. There is reason for guarded optimism. Teen violence has not yet embraced the use of guns, as in the United States, nor do many delinquents deal in hard drugs. In Taiwan, theft, amphetamine abuse, and extortion are the most common teen offenses. But car-jackings, assaults on teachers, and drive-by shootings are nonexistent.
It is dangerous to place all the blame on society for the rise in juvenile delinquency. Kids can go bad in the best of environments and, to the credit of many counselors, police officials, and others, troubled kids now have more places they can go for help outside the family if they need it. Moreover, the government and the private sector are vigorously attacking teen drug abuse, and the police and courts are adjusting their approach to juvenile crime.
But it is also dangerous to ignore the impact of society's growing disregard for the law. The moral momentum is moving in the wrong direction. The most sophisticated laws are worthless if they are not enforced or, even worse, encompass some members of society and not others. In traditional Chinese political philosophy, the emperor was supposed to be the ultimate role model; he set the standard for propriety in thought and actions for all people. In a democracy, that responsibility is substantially broadened to include everyone from political and civic leaders to parents. All adults are potential role models—and today's kids are watching carefully. Wei-wu.