Huang Yali's Perspective: Who Supervises the Reviewers? Beyond Academic Ethics, Do We Also Need a Code of Review Ethics?

In recent years, academic ethics has received unprecedented attention. From plagiarism and research misconduct to AI usage and research data management, universities and research institutions have invested significant resources in establishing investigation and disciplinary systems. These efforts are essential, as the academic community cannot build societal trust without integrity. However, as we increasingly emphasize researchers’ ethical responsibilities, another question is rarely raised: Should those who hold the power of review, investigation, and evaluation also be bound by corresponding ethical constraints?

I raise this question not to undermine the importance of academic ethics systems, but from deep reflection after experiencing a disciplinary case that was ultimately overturned by the court. Years ago, I was reported for a research proposal I had submitted years earlier—one that was neither funded, executed, nor published. Despite the passage of time, my university imposed severe penalties restricting my work rights for five years. After three years of internal appeals, administrative remedies, and judicial proceedings, the court finally revoked all penalties, citing the university’s negligent discretion and abuse of power.

I have never denied the citation omissions I made due to time constraints at the time, and I am willing to accept reasonable scrutiny and reminders. Yet throughout these three years, I kept asking: How did a minor citation issue gradually, through repeated reviews and evaluations, become a comprehensive judgment on my character, motives, and academic integrity—transforming into something entirely different?

My concern shifted from whether the punishment was justified to how the judgment itself was formed.

During litigation, when the court ordered the university to disclose previously confidential records of the three-tier review meetings and allowed me to review the case files, I saw for the first time the words spoken in my absence.

I initially expected a neutral discussion of facts. But quickly, I realized these were not just records—they contained clear directional cues. The focus wasn’t on understanding a research proposal, but on judging a person.

I read a committee member insisting: "We must not let her off with just a written warning, a reminder, or taking an ethics course. She must be handled under the strictest standards." Another said: "She didn’t make a mistake—she did it intentionally." A third added: "She’s a repeat offender; we must give her a severe warning so she won’t repeat this in the future."

When I read these words, my first thought was: Did I pick up the wrong file? I double-checked the case number—no, it was indeed mine.

At that moment, I realized that although I wasn’t present, evaluations of my character, motives, and academic attitude had already been formed. One member made a judgment, another added justification, a third amplified the criticism—each statement reinforcing the others. What began as a debatable issue steadily moved in one direction.

A 26% similarity result from Turnitin, originally a citation oversight, was gradually described as "intentional," "serious," and "habitual." Language itself began shaping the case’s trajectory.

I realized that as adjectives and inferences piled up, limited facts could morph into a completely different narrative. I wasn’t just seeing comments—I was witnessing a phenomenon the academic community must reflect on: In a closed review process, language doesn’t merely describe facts—it constructs how facts are understood. Once a certain interpretation takes hold, subsequent discussions tend to follow the same path.

I began to understand that what truly affects a person isn’t just the final decision, but how each word was spoken before that decision was made.

In a review meeting I couldn’t attend or even know about, I had no idea how my proposal was elevated to a "major case." I kept asking: How were claims like "80% plagiarism," "all 20 pages copied," or "most research methods belong to others" formed? When such descriptions, clearly diverging from objective comparisons, were written into official review opinions, they ceased to be personal views and began shaping others’ understanding—and ultimately, the final judgment.

For the first time, I painfully realized: Procedural participation rights aren’t abstract legal concepts. They determine whether a person can defend themselves against distorted or false accusations before judgments are formed. Yet the university denied me this right.

That day, I finally understood: Review isn’t a static document—it’s a dynamic process of judgment formation. Therefore, it’s not just a professional issue, but an ethical one.

I began to wonder: If researchers must cite faithfully, argue fairly, and face evidence honestly, shouldn’t reviewers also read faithfully, evaluate fairly, and present facts accurately?

If academic ethics governs researchers’ conduct, shouldn’t review ethics govern how review power is exercised? A truly trustworthy system demands not only researcher integrity, but also that those wielding judgment power bear equal ethical responsibility for their decisions.

For three years, I kept asking: "Why did the university issue such a devastating punishment?" Only when the court ordered the university to produce the meeting records and I reviewed them did I realize the real question isn’t "why this decision," but "how this decision was formed step by step."

Shifting my perspective from outcome to process, I realized I no longer wanted to discuss only academic ethics—but review ethics. What truly needs scrutiny isn’t just researchers’ behavior, but how review power is exercised.

Ethics is not a one-sided demand, but a shared responsibility in relationships

Ethics has never been a one-sided demand, but a shared responsibility within relationships. It exists not only to regulate individual behavior, but to define how people treat each other within relationships. Anyone entering such a relationship and influencing others’ rights should bear corresponding ethical responsibilities.

True ethics isn’t just that researchers must be honest—it’s that everyone involved in academic judgment must be honest.

Whether a researcher violated academic ethics is rarely judged directly by society, but through professional judgments by review, investigation, and deliberation committees. These judgments aren’t just academic opinions—they can affect a teacher’s research funding, eligibility, work rights, even their entire academic career and life.

Therefore, review isn’t just professional judgment—it’s an exercise of power with public impact. Shouldn’t we then demand that reviewers adhere to corresponding ethical principles?

We forbid researchers from taking things out of context—shouldn’t reviewers also read entire research texts fully, rather than drawing conclusions from fragments?

We forbid researchers from exaggerating evidence—shouldn’t reviewers distinguish objective facts from subjective inferences, avoiding speculation as evidence?

We require researchers to fairly cite prior work—shouldn’t reviewers faithfully present the full picture of a case, avoiding biased judgments based on partial information?

We forbid researchers from pre-determining conclusions and then seeking supporting materials—shouldn’t reviewers avoid preconceptions, approach truth with openness, and seek evidence rather than just confirming predetermined conclusions?

Ethics in the academic community shouldn’t only bind researchers—it should also require reviewers to bear ethical responsibilities commensurate with their power. This is ethical symmetry. Researchers are subject to academic ethics scrutiny; reviewers should be subject to review ethics scrutiny. Only when researchers, reviewers, and institutions are all bound by corresponding ethical constraints can the academic community truly be built on integrity, fairness, and trust—rather than placing all ethical burdens on one side.

I once thought academic ethics was about regulating researchers. Only after reading those review meeting records did I slowly understand: Ethics doesn’t regulate a single person—it regulates a relationship. If in a relationship, only researchers are held to ethical standards, while those wielding review, investigation, and disciplinary power bear no corresponding responsibility, then such ethics is incomplete.

That’s why I began to wonder: If researchers need academic ethics, do reviewers also need a code of review ethics? Review ethics isn’t another set of administrative rules—it’s an ethical awareness when exercising review power. When a reviewer’s judgment can affect another’s reputation, work rights, or academic life, they bear not just professional responsibility, but ethical responsibility.

My understanding of review ethics: Five core ethical responsibilities

If researchers must bear ethical responsibilities corresponding to knowledge production, then those holding review, investigation, and evaluation power must also bear ethical responsibilities corresponding to their authority. Based on this ethical symmetry, I believe a mature code of review ethics should include at least five fundamental principles: fidelity, fairness, procedure, proportionality, and restraint.

First, the principle of fidelity.