On a humid afternoon in the mountains of southwestern China, an auxiliary policewoman in a navy uniform stood behind a wooden desk, helping a villager fill in paperwork.

She spoke softly, switching between Mandarin and the local Derung language. When the forms were done, she explained the next steps — where to go, what to bring, and how long it would take. The exchange was routine, but for Jiang Chunxiang, it held deeper meaning.

"This is what they did for us," Jiang said. "Now I can do it for others."

Years earlier, Jiang was a child in this same valley, walking nearly a day through the mountains to attend a school that barely resembled one. In that remote era, the teachers were not only professional educators, but also border police officers.

"They were also only in their 20s, but they taught us almost everything," she said. "Not just reading and writing. How to cook, how to take care of ourselves, how to see the world beyond here."

Dulongjiang, a narrow valley township in Southwest China's Yunnan province, near the border with Myanmar, is one of China's most remote regions. For much of the last century, it was cut off from the outside world for months at a time, with no roads and limited access to basic services.

In that isolation, the local border police station became something more than a law enforcement outpost. It was, at different times, a school, a clinic, a mediator, and a bridge between the valley and the rest of the country.

Nowhere was that role more visible than in education.

In 2000, Sang Xingchen, a native of Shandong province and 47 years old now, arrived in Dulongjiang as a young officer. Not long after, he was assigned to teach at a primary school jointly built by border officers and local residents in Maku village.

The school served children from scattered villages, many of whom had never seen the outside world. In the beginning, the classroom was just a simple thatched hut, and the children lived in the spare quarters of the nearby border guards.

"The conditions were very basic," Sang said. "The classroom was a wooden structure. Sometimes two grades shared one room. While I was teaching one group, the other would sit quietly and do their work."

Even the most ordinary lessons required improvisation.

"Some children had never seen a fan, or a bicycle, or even fruit like oranges and apples," he said. "We had to draw everything on the blackboard and explain it piece by piece."

One day, a visiting official brought a bag of oranges. Sang carried them to the classroom.

"I didn't just give them out," he said. "First, we talked about what they looked like, what color they were. Then I cut them into small pieces so every child could taste one."

For many of the students, it was the first time.

"I still remember their faces," he said. "That kind of surprise — you don't forget it."

Teaching was only part of the job. Many students lived far from school and had to stay on campus. Sang and his colleagues became caretakers as much as instructors — helping children cook meals, wash up and adjust to life away from home.

"There was no clear boundary between teachers and babysitters," he said. "You teach, and you take care of them. You do whatever is needed."

The journey to school itself could take hours. Some children walked over mountain paths each week, carrying their own food — rice or corn — to last through their stay.

"They were very young," Sang said. "But they were determined."

Among those children was Jiang. She grew up in Maku village, about 20 kilometers from the school. Getting there meant crossing a mountain, a journey that took an entire day on foot.

"We would leave early in the morning," she said. "Sometimes our parents would walk with us part of the way."

During the week, she stayed with relatives near the school. When it rained and the paths became too dangerous, she would not go home.

What stayed with her most, she said, was not the hardship, but the people.

"When I first saw the police officers teaching us, I felt admiration," she said. "They were patient. They cared about us, not just in class but in daily life."

After finishing her studies, Jiang left Dulongjiang to work in other cities. The transition was not easy. With limited formal education, she struggled to find stable work.

Then, in 2021, she heard that the local police station was recruiting auxiliary officers.

"I didn't hesitate," she said. "I wanted to come back."

Today, she assists with community policing — visiting households, helping maintain order, and supporting administrative services at the station. She also works with schoolchildren, standing guard during arrival and home time.

The role is different from the one her teachers once held, but the connection remains clear. "They helped me when I was young," she said. "Now I can help the next generation."

The idea of education in Dulongjiang has always extended beyond the classroom. For the police, it was also about exposure — showing children a world beyond the valley and preparing them for it.

"We used to tell them, study hard, and you can go outside, see more, do more," Sang said. "Not just for themselves, but for this place."

Over time, that message has taken root.

Today, the local school system is more developed, and many children continue their education beyond the valley. Access to information, once nearly nonexistent, is now available through mobile networks.

But the legacy of those earlier efforts remains embedded in the community. That change can be seen not only in careers, but in outlook. Children who once hesitated to speak to strangers now perform confidently in public. Families who once lived in isolation are more connected — to markets, to services, to each other.

"I'm delighted by the children's transformation. It's hard to distinguish these village kids from those in big cities; they're confident, gracious, and well-informed," Sang said.

At the same time, the sense of continuity is strong. Many of the young officers working in Dulongjiang today are from nearby places. Some, like Jiang, were once students taught by earlier generations of police.

Back at the station, the work continues in incremental ways.

An officer reviews documents. Another prepares to visit a remote village. Outside, a group of children passes by, their voices carrying across the courtyard.

For Jiang, the scene feels both familiar and new.

"Sometimes I think about those days," she said, referring to her time as a student. "Walking to school, sitting in that classroom, listening to the teachers."

"It's different now," she said. "But in some ways, it's the same."