From street tabloids to the first newspaper of the Republic of China

Lin Wangzheng started writing very slowly, but his hand holding the pen was visibly trembling.

He was both angry and sad.

The anger stemmed from thinking about the disdain he had received and his life during this period.

I'm sad because I saw the disdain on the street and experienced what it means to be treated worse than pigs and dogs.

[I. There are no "people" here, only "living things"]

If you think all beggars are pitiful people begging for alms, you're wrong. Entering the shantytown, a stench mixed with excrement, garbage, and plague is enough to make you gasp for breath. There are no roads, only stinking water and mud. People sit in the mud and sleep in rotten grass. A beggar boy in his thirties had a large, festering sore on his leg, swarming with flies. He just stared blankly, neither crying nor making a sound. When asked, he only shook his head. The foreman leading me said, "The pain has numbed me, and I'm numb with hunger."

Numbness is the most common state here. Hunger, illness, and bitter cold... can all numb a person. These past few days have been hot; overnight, one person in this shack succumbed to the heat. At dawn, the surviving beggars dragged him to a distant, overgrown graveyard, wrapped him in a straw mat, and that was the end of it. No one cried, no one asked. Their lives are cheaper than those of wild dogs. Wild dogs will bare their teeth when they fight for food; many here don't even have the strength to bare their teeth.

When Shen Zishi saw Lin Wangzheng finish writing these words, his eyes widened in surprise.

He could hardly imagine what his nephew had seen and experienced these past few days to be able to write such words.

Part Two: "Uncle" and Rules: An Invisible Vampire Web

But if you think this place is a disorganized mess, where everyone can do whatever they want, you're wrong. There's a strict hierarchy here, with rules even stricter than those in government offices. At the top are the "heads" or "uncles," below them are the "fans" and "fists," then various "minor beggar leaders," and at the very bottom are us "poor beggars."

The "little beggar leader" I followed lived in the only house with tiles in the shantytown, dressed in worn-out hemp clothes. He rarely went out, as he had people to "pay his respects" to him. He told me that beggars in Shanghai were divided into various factions, such as "Fan," "Li," and "Guo," each further subdivided according to their place of origin and methods. The "gang" I had infiltrated consisted mostly of refugees from Jiangbei and Shandong. The "uncle" had designated territory, and the shops and alleys of these few streets were our "rice bowl." To keep our livelihood, we often had to fight with other gangs.

The daily "rules" were ironclad: At dawn, we'd "go to work," led to our territory by a leader designated by the beggar chief. The copper coins and leftover food we collected had to be "handed over" to the "beggar chief" in the evening. He took at least 60%, called "rule money," and 30% of that had to be handed over. What we ended up with was barely enough to buy a few steamed buns or a tiny bit of opium. Dare to keep any? That was called "breaking the rules," punishable by a beating, or even worse, being "shoveled to the ground" or having a dog unleashed.

[Begging for money isn't a free job. His "business" is divided into internal and external. Internally, it's about "family rules," and externally, it's about "diplomacy." When a shop opens or there's a wedding or funeral, he has to offer his "congratulations" and collect a "peace money" to ensure peace and quiet in front of the shop. If any unruly "freelance beggars" or other beggars try to take over his territory and cause trouble, his fists will "discipline" them. If the police from the foreign concessions or the Chinese-controlled areas arrive, he can also step in to "mediate," slipping them "tobacco money," and the matter is settled. You see, this is a network that connects the lowest rung of society directly to the "respectable world," hidden beneath the glamorous facade of Shanghai, with its own power, its own rules, and its own way of life.]

Shen Zishi had been in Shanghai for so many years before he realized that the Beggars' Sect had so many rules.

One can imagine the hardships Lin Wangzheng endured to obtain this information.

Only people like this deserve to be called journalists.

[Part Three: What is "Living Way"? It's the art of turning a person into a ghost.]

[The way to survive is to find ways to transform yourself into something inhuman in order to earn a living. There's a lot to learn and a clear division of labor involved.]

[The "Complaint Party": Specializing in "crying skills." Holding a dead child in front of a rich person's house or shop, they can cry their hearts out, reciting a complete set of tragic life stories. Once they get a coin, their tears instantly dry, and they move on to the next house expressionlessly—this is called "shooting the gun."]

[Street performers: These are considered "technical" performers. Swallowing iron balls, swords, and breaking large stones on their chests are called "street tricks." Those who specialize in this art can twist their arms behind their backs, a feat that sends chills down the spine; this is called "twisting and squeezing." Practicing this "rope-unwinding" skill is all for the sake of earning a few more copper coins a day. There are also "crawling through grids," "showing off bare-chested," and so on, each with its own name.]

[The disabled party: the largest group, and also the most miserable, divided into "truly disabled" and "fake disabled."]

Those truly disabled beggar children are mostly products of "human mutilation"—the children are abducted and "processed" by "beggar leaders" or specialized human traffickers; blinding them with smoke is called "beacon," breaking their limbs is called "breaking branches," and having their bodies covered in sores is called "creating waste." They are living tools for begging; pain is their only "capital," used to attract the attention of passersby. If they fail to beg for money one day, they will be missing another part—this is their fate.

[The "fake disability" is all an act. They're carried to busy street corners every day, and by evening, they're nimbly up and leave, showing no signs of paralysis whatsoever. If they don't fake it, who'll pay them? The truly paralyzed would have already collapsed. There are also other elaborate schemes like "painting flowers" and "hanging lanterns."]

[In addition, there are "extortionists," "scratching gangs," "Guanyin gangs," and so on, too many to list in one night. Every trade has its own tricks and territory; you can't cross the line, otherwise it's considered "stealing food" and you'll be punished according to the rules.]

"So there are so many intricacies involved."

Shen Zishi was deeply impressed by the intricacies of the Beggars' Sect.

Lin Wangzheng paused his writing, thought for a moment, and shook his head to explain:

"There are many more, not just these few tricks. Many of those beggars who make a living by begging will join gangs and completely turn themselves into ghosts."

Shen Zishi sighed:

"You've suffered."

Lin Wangzheng shook his head:

"It's nothing, just a reporter's duty."

After saying that, he continued writing.

[IV. What is hope? It's a smoke bubble, it's a clay idol.]

Every night, in a corner of the shed, someone would gather around a tiny opium lamp, puffing away. The money they'd begged for had turned into a wisp of smoke. They said that when they were drunk, they wouldn't feel cold, hungry, or miss their families. Reality was hell, but perhaps there was a moment of paradise in the opium bubble. This "death by choice" expense consumed their entire meager income.

[Some people worship Bodhisattvas, Guan Yu, and all sorts of gods and Buddhas said to bring wealth. In their dilapidated sheds, they sculpt clay statues and kowtow daily. What do they pray for? They pray to beg for a couple more copper coins tomorrow, to avoid illness, and for the "beggar chief" to go easy on them. Here, faith is the most illusory anesthetic.]

[V. On the seventh day, I left.]

I refused the coins I had begged for. My body was covered in flea and mosquito bites, my stomach was full of spoiled porridge, and my mind was filled with an image I would never forget. I returned to the newspaper office and ate a bowl of plain noodles, but I knew that a part of my soul remained forever in that stinking swamp.

I'm not writing this to elicit a few tears of pity or a few coins from you gentlemen and ladies. That's useless. Tomorrow, there will only be more beggars. Because the machine that creates beggars is running at full speed. The floods in the Yangtze and Huai River regions, the war in Shandong, the banditry in Hunan and Hubei...

Ship after ship of people were being dumped into Shanghai like garbage. The docks unloaded cargo, and with it, countless broken lives. Factories wanted strong workers, not the old and weak; docks wanted laborers, not the sick and disabled; casinos wanted silver dollars, not the poor. Where could those pushed off go? They could only slide into the deepest ditch, caught in the already spread net called the "Beggars' Gang," drained of their last drop of flesh and blood, becoming either walnuts in the hands of "Uncle" or a "lying" corpse on the street.

The colonial police only cared about the gleaming streets of the concessions; the Chinese-controlled police only knew how to collect "fees" and skim profits; the officials were busy with their grand pronouncements as "monarchs." Who, I ask you, ever lowered their head to look at the festering sores beneath their feet? Within those sores, a set of rules and ways of life ran more nakedly and cruelly than anything on earth.

[Our reporter: Feng Sheng]

After finishing the last word, Lin Wangzheng put down the pen, leaned back in his chair, and was completely exhausted.

Shen Zishi walked over, intending to take a look at the manuscript, but his hand was suddenly grabbed.

Lin Wangzheng shook his head:

"I need to add something, wait a minute."

Shen Zishi obediently moved his hand away, ground ink for Lin Wangzheng again, and arranged the paper and brush.

Lin Wangzheng's eyes were bloodshot, like spider webs in the corner of a wall, and he was on the verge of collapse. He gritted his teeth and continued writing:

[Editor's Note:]

[The beggars knew what the lower class meant, what it meant to be a colony, a warlord, a landlord, a comprador, a penny-pincher, an old man... all those with status, power, guns, clubs, knives, and pens were crammed into the stinking sewers. Like slaves in factories, skeletons in mines, and withered bones in plantations, they suffered the same depravity, seeing no way out.]

They rotted away on the streets day after day, numbing themselves with religion and opium, until one sunny afternoon, they collapsed at an alleyway, becoming a cold number in the police register, and then were completely forgotten by the world.

[In today's turbulent times, with the collapse of co-governance, there are more and more beggars. Are we waiting for some modern-day Wu Xun to open a soup kitchen? Or are we waiting for foreign philanthropists to come and take photos and give alms? In this newspaper's opinion, if this world, which creates beggars, nourishes the wealthy, and condones the exploitation and cruelty of the living, remains unchanged, no matter how much charity is given, it's nothing more than throwing a few pebbles into a bottomless abyss, or even becoming another strong thread in that blood-sucking web, turning into some kind of laughable business practice.]

This is the foundation upon which some proponents of imperial rule stand, the true reality beneath the glamorous robes of so-called international metropolises. Can you bear to look at this?

Lin Wangzheng slowly put down his pen, propped his elbows on the table, covered his face, and rubbed it vigorously.

It's finished!

This also means that the sins committed over the past few days have finally yielded results.

However, tens of thousands of people are still suffering from this torment.

That's all journalists can do...

Once Shen Zishi was sure there was no further movement to pick up his pen, he hurriedly picked up the manuscript paper and read it through from beginning to end.

After reading it, his hand holding the manuscript trembled slightly:

"This isn't an editorial; it's a manifesto, an accusation."

"It's on behalf of the group of beggars you saw, issuing a complaint."

Lin Wangzheng lowered his hand, tugged at his hair, and answered in a hoarse voice:

"Uncle, I've heard far too many people claiming to be fair and objective these days. Which journalists and writers don't say that? But in reality, one is acting as the mouthpiece of Yuan Shikai's faction, and another as his strategist."

"Inconsistency between words and deeds makes one appear hypocritical. It is better to openly and honestly admit one's position and raise these questions and accusations on behalf of those who are everywhere but unable to speak out."

Shen Zishi shook his head and gave a wry smile:

"You're right. Perhaps only journalists like you, who are dedicated to speaking for the people, are closer to justice..."

He gently placed the manuscript on the table, patted Lin Wangzheng on the shoulder, and looked out the window at the scenery.

Judging from the sun, it must be around two or three in the afternoon, the hottest time of day. In the distance, along the Huangpu River, shirtless workers are still sweating profusely.

"I wrote many articles when I was young, but I never wrote anything like this."

"Scholars consider it shameful to associate with the lowest of the low. I have never seen anyone willing to throw themselves into the mud like you have, to see, hear, and feel for themselves."

"In other words, only by doing this can you write this kind of article."

Shen Zishi looked at Lin Wangzheng's messy head and said very seriously, "Wangzheng, what you've done is meaningful, truly meaningful. If your father were alive, he would be very happy."

Lin Wangzheng nodded and said in a deep voice:

"Uncle, there's one more thing."

"What?"

"I know a beggar leader who controls the racecourse area. He has dozens of men under him, and the number is still expanding. In addition, he has connections in both the foreign concessions and can get a lot of information."

"You mean?"

Shen Zishi understood what Lin Wangzheng wanted to say.

Lin Wangzheng didn't keep anyone in suspense:

"That's indeed the idea. We need an intelligence network, and we also need our own strength, otherwise we'll be easily defeated."

"Xue Da Ke won't let this go easily. Yuan's faction will find us sooner or later. When that happens, we'll need someone to keep watch, relay messages, and provide cover for us."

"But since our newspaper speaks out for the people, it cannot rely on capitalists or warlords. We must rely on dockworkers, beggars on the street, rickshaw pullers, factory workers... Only by integrating these people can we take root."

Shen Zishi knew the key, but hesitated:

"That makes sense, but the beggar you're talking about isn't a kind person."

Lin Wangzheng said very seriously:

"But he's not a bad person, is he?"

"In this world, just surviving is already difficult enough. He led dozens of people to survive, and being soft-hearted won't help. But he wasn't completely without feelings for those beggars; that's the duality of his character."

"He found out I was a journalist, but he still let me stay and told me a lot of things. When I left today, he said he wanted to see it sooner, and wanted outsiders to see that Shanghai is not just about the brightly lit Bund, but also about social scum like them."

"Furthermore, who gets to define what's good and what's bad in this world? In the eyes of the Yuan faction, we're not exactly good people either. It's people like Xue Dake who are truly evil."

A gust of wind blew in, making the manuscript papers on the table rustle.

Shen Zishi pressed the manuscript paper down and said:

"Go take a shower and get some sleep. I'll figure out the rest. When you wake up, I'll give you some money. Go help the people you've been in contact with recently."