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

As the night passed, the sun broke through the darkness.

The alleyways of Dongxinqiao were still quiet, with only the occasional faint sound.

Lin Wangzheng finished writing the last line of text by the light of the oil lamp, signed his pen name, and let out a long breath.

The stories of more than fifty people are condensed into just over seven thousand words on this piece of paper in front of you...

On the bed, Shen Zishi was fast asleep, his snoring sounding like a power drill starting up, rising and falling rhythmically.

Last night, we agreed to stay up all night together with Lin Wangzheng, but halfway through, he said he was too old and couldn't keep up, leaving Lin Wangzheng to write alone.

Lin Wangzheng was a little angry. He walked to the bedside and nudged his shoulder.

"Uncle, wake up!"

Shen Zishi turned over, pulled the blanket tighter around himself, and mumbled something, which was hard to hear.

Lin Wangzheng covered his mouth with both hands, leaned close to Shen Zishi's ear, and imitated a line from the movie "The Mummy" from his previous life, shouting:

"wake up!"

At that moment, Shen Zishi abruptly opened his eyes, panting heavily. After a long while, his vision gradually cleared, and he glanced at his troublesome nephew, then flew into a rage:

You scared me to death!

"I told you to get up and read the article!"

"Finished writing?"

"Otherwise, why would I wake you up?"

Lin Wangzheng said condescendingly.

Shen Zishi rubbed his face vigorously, slowly got up, put on his slippers, walked to the table, sat down, lit an early morning cigarette, and picked up the first page of manuscript paper.

He glanced at it a few times, then looked up and asked:

Why did you change your pen name to "Mingjing"?

Lin Wangzheng shrugged and explained:

"I learned this from someone. It's called having a clear mind. Changing pen names often is beneficial; it's hard to find fault with me."

Shen Zishi didn't press further, but lowered his head and continued reading.

[I. The person who fell down the ridge]

Who are these rickshaw pullers? Among the fifty people interviewed by this newspaper, there were thirty farmers, six textile factory workers, three merchants, four laborers, three night watchmen, one boatman, one carpenter, one craftsman, and one school teacher. But if you trace their origins further, the textile factory worker was a farmer three years ago; the carpenter's hometown was Suqian, where he carried a hoe. At least 80% of this group are farmers who grew up in the fields. When asked why they didn't stay home to farm, the answers were all similar: "The fields were flooded," "Floods," "Drought caused a complete crop failure," "The soldiers went, and everything was lost"—it was like a pre-written template.

A 42-year-old rickshaw driver surnamed Gao (all names in this article are pseudonyms) spoke frankly: "My family has three mu of land, and it floods every year. The first year it flooded, so I borrowed money to plant the second year; the second year it flooded again, and the debt piled up. The landlords were demanding rent, and the government was demanding grain; I couldn't survive. I rolled up a tattered quilt at night and traveled along the canal for a month until I reached Songhu. For the first three days, I slept on the side of the road. Later, a fellow villager introduced me to a rickshaw, and I was finally able to rent one."

This is where they came from: bankruptcies in the countryside, unable to make a living from the land, forced them to migrate to the cities. But what did the cities offer? Factories needed young, strong, and skilled apprentices, while docks needed burly porters. They had no skills, only physical strength. So, pulling rickshaws became their only way to survive. Especially towards the end of the Qing Dynasty, rural bankruptcies worsened year by year, and the pool of rickshaw pullers grew year by year. In the view of this reporter, the flourishing of the rickshaw industry was not a sign of progress, but rather a manifestation of economic collapse.

Even fewer people can read. Out of fifty rickshaw pullers, only eleven or twelve can write their own names. Fewer than five can read street signs. There was a young man who had been pulling a rickshaw for three years, running the route through Wangping Street every day. When asked how to write "Wangping Street," he scratched his head for a long time, then smiled sheepishly: "I recognize the shape, but I can't write it." This small example illustrates a broader trend: over 70% of rickshaw pullers are illiterate, and the vast majority are illiterate or semi-literate.

[And their ages? Of the fifty people interviewed, the youngest was only sixteen and the oldest was fifty-four. Most were between twenty-five and forty. The rickshaw-pulling business is all about youth. Too old and you can't keep going; too young and you can't keep going for long. The average age of the rickshaw pullers is just over thirty-five, and most have been pulling rickshaws for less than ten years. Those who have been pulling for more than ten years have either broken down physically or died.]

Another noteworthy phenomenon is that the vast majority of these rickshaw pullers are from Jiangbei (north of the Yangtze River). They come from places like Yancheng, Funing, Taixian, and Tongzhou. Why? Because those areas are barren and impoverished, plagued by frequent floods, leaving the people with no other option but to flee famine. After migrating to Jiangnan, the men pulled rickshaws, became peddlers, and laborers, while the women worked as maids, nannies, or even resorted to prostitution. Over time, rickshaw pulling became a "profession" for people from Jiangbei, and even the northern Jiangsu dialect became their "jargon." During the interviews, the reporter heard many rickshaw pullers chatting in Yancheng dialect, a Shanghai dialect with a northern Jiangsu undertone, which could be heard everywhere on the streets.

These passages are so detailed and vivid that they evoke a great deal of thought in the reader.

Shen Zishi, recalling his previous experience riding in a rickshaw, said:

"I also asked the drivers, 'How do you find your way if you can't read?' Guess what their answer was?"

Lin Wangzheng was very obliging; he ran to the bed, covered himself with the blanket, and asked the question knowingly:

"What was your answer?"

Shen Zishi chuckled:

"Those rickshaw drivers don't know the way, but they recognize signs and buildings. If you change the signs on every street, they'll get lost."

Part Two: The backbreaking labor of cattle and horses, running from dawn till dusk

[A single vehicle isn't pulled by just one person. An investigation revealed that most vehicles are shared by two people, each working half a day. The morning shift is called the "early shift," and the afternoon shift is called the "late shift." Even worse are those with three or four people sharing a vehicle, taking turns resting and working, constantly moving. There are even "skipping shifts" and "pulling the back of the vehicle"—no fixed shift leader, starting around 3 or 4 pm, renting out half a shift, earning a few coins. The rules in the vehicle rental company are very strict: you must arrive at 4 or 5 am every day to wait for the vehicle; if you're late, the vehicle has been rented by someone else, and the whole day is wasted.]

How much can you actually earn in a day? This is a question many people are concerned about, and it's also the most controversial one.

A reporter did the math. An average rickshaw driver works eleven to twelve hours a day, earning a gross income of about one dollar and twelve cents. Sounds like a lot? Hold on, after deducting five to six cents for the daily rental fee, how much is left? And that's not all; if the rickshaw is sublet to a "headman," there's another layer of profit. The rental fee accounts for over 45% of the driver's income. In the end, the driver only pockets about five or six cents.

What could you do with five or six cents in Shanghai? A bowl of plain noodles cost two copper coins, and a flatbread cost one copper coin. It was barely enough for one person to eat coarse grains for a day. But to support a family? Forget about it. A rickshaw puller's monthly income was less than nine yuan, while a family of five needed more than sixteen yuan a month. Where did the huge gap come from? Borrowing, pawning, or the wife and children having to go out and find work.

There was a rickshaw driver in his forties, surnamed Cao, who rented a thatched hut by the river. His wife washed clothes for others, and they had three children, the oldest of whom was only nine years old. He told the reporter, "If I don't pull the rickshaw for a day, my family won't have any rice to cook. On rainy days, business is good, and even if I'm soaked to the bone, I have to keep going. In winter, it's freezing cold, and my hands crack and bleed on the handlebars, but I still have to keep going. It's not that I want to keep going, it's that I have no choice. I have to pay the rickshaw rent every day, and if I can't pay, they take the rickshaw back, and I'm nothing."

[Furthermore, what rickshaw pullers fear most is illness. One day of illness means one less day of pay; three days of illness means the rickshaw company will have to rent the rickshaw to someone else. A 26-year-old rickshaw puller, who had only been pulling rickshaws for two years, coughed up blood on the street. He dared not rest and continued to drive every day as usual. When asked why he didn't see a doctor, he smiled bitterly and said, "See a doctor? One yuan for registration, two yuan for medicine. How much do I earn in a day? If I go to the doctor, my whole family will starve. Coughing up blood is fine; if I collapse from coughing, that's my fate."]

This is their work and life; it's not a respectable profession, but a business where they risk their lives for money. To earn a little more each month, the average working life of a rickshaw puller is only five and a half years. After running like livestock for five and a half years, most are ruthlessly left on the roadside, then rendered unable to work and left to die.

Shen Zishi remained silent for a while, then stubbed out his cigarette and put it in the ashtray.

Because the conclusion of this investigation is rather cruel.

Coughing up blood while still driving, death has become a kind of relief for these rickshaw drivers...

The most terrifying thing is the five and a half years of working life. No wonder there are so many rickshaw drivers in Shanghai, it's just one generation after another...

It seems he hasn't seen many rickshaw pullers over forty years old...

Trading your life for five years of survival is hardly a worthwhile deal, but if you want to live, you have to make this kind of trade.

What difference is there between that and making a deal with the devil?

[Three Mountains Weighing Down]

Those who pull carts not only have to contend with their own bodies, but also with the strength of others.

The first hurdle was dealing with the patrol officers and police. The concessions had many rules: keep to the left, keep to the right, where you couldn't park, where you couldn't turn—the list was endless. A reporter witnessed a rickshaw driver slightly touch the edge of the sidewalk while turning; a patrol officer rushed over, berated him, and then pried open his license plate. Once the license plate was pried open, he couldn't drive for the day. Want it back? First, he had to pay a two-dollar fine.

[Old Zhang, the rickshaw driver, told the reporter, "The police can find any reason to fine you. A dirty car? Broken lights? Driving too fast? Driving too slow? Once, I took a passenger to the Bund. The passenger got out and left. Just as I was about to turn around, a policeman came over and said I was 'obstructing traffic,' and he pried off my license. I tried to reason with him, and he picked up a stick and started hitting me."]

Extortion and bribery were commonplace for rickshaws. The Public Works Department had a "City Regulations and Police Supplementary Rules," which was filled with regulations for rickshaws: no ringing bells, violators would be arrested and fined; they must travel in single file from both sides, violators would be arrested and fined. This was hardly traffic maintenance; it was clearly a pretext for the police to issue fines. Even more outrageous was the vehicle inspection: once a day, tires, axles, leaf springs, wires, rims, canopy, seat, footrests, handrails—everything had to be inspected. Those that failed to meet the standards had their licenses temporarily suspended and were not allowed to be sold. Ostensibly for passenger safety, it was actually to force rickshaw companies to buy imported parts to replace the old ones, and then the companies would pass the losses onto the drivers.

Some disgruntled rickshaw pullers were beaten to death by patrol officers, and ultimately received no justice. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last.

The second layer consists of the passengers.

The passengers on the rickshaw came from all walks of life. Reasonable passengers would pay upon disembarking and offer a word of thanks. Unreasonable passengers? They were plentiful. Some wouldn't pay the full fare, throwing down a few coins and running away at their destination; others would curse at the driver for being too slow; some would vomit on the rickshaw while drunk; and still others would get off without paying, and when the driver chased after them to argue, they would be beaten up.

A young rickshaw driver surnamed Wei said, "I'm most afraid of picking up drunkards. They won't pay you and will even beat you. Once, I picked up a gentleman in a long gown to Fourth Road. When we arrived, he got off and started to leave. When I asked him for the fare, he turned around and cursed me as a 'stinking beggar' and shoved me. I wanted to fight back, but someone next to me pulled me back and said, 'If you hit him, the police will come and arrest you.'"

[Passengers are one culprit, but some rickshaw pullers are quite cunning. They'll put a counterfeit silver coin in their mouth, and when the passenger gives them a real one, they'll hide it, spit out the fake, and force the passenger to exchange it. This isn't something a reporter made up; it's a common "rickshaw puller fraud case" that you can find anywhere. But why does this phenomenon occur?]

The third layer consists of car dealership owners, foremen, and gang members.

The rickshaw drivers call this "the higher-ups." These higher-ups don't lift a finger, don't break a sweat, just sit inside and drain nearly half the drivers' hard-earned money every day. What's even more frightening is that this "higher-ups" aren't just one layer. Within the rickshaw rental network, there are car owners, big contractors, and small contractors, layer upon layer of subcontracting and exploitation. The Public Works Department's license fee is only sixty dollars, but a license plate bought on the market costs six hundred dollars. Who pockets this difference? It's really hard to guess.

Gang influence has also gotten involved. It's said that 90% of the rickshaw pullers in Shanghai have joined the Green Gang. It's not that they want to be involved in organized crime; they have no choice. In this city, without a backer, the police will bully you, thugs will extort you, and even your rickshaw might be stolen and sold. By siding with a "big brother" and paying some "tribute money," at least you'll have some protection. But this loyalty isn't free. The pullers unwittingly become tools and thugs for the gangs, who collude with the rickshaw companies and the police to further drain the pullers' hard-earned money.

The rickshaw drivers did consider resistance, but due to the authorities' strong crackdown, the fare increase still went ahead.

"These things of yours are too real, so real that it's almost unbearable to look at. And you even named names; I'm afraid this time you won't be so easily fooled!"

Shen Zishi said this, but he didn't say anything about making any changes. After all, only a journalist could understand the value of such a manuscript.

If we turn a blind eye to the most critical issue of "exploitation" in order to seek stability, then what's the point of exposing the darkness?

I already owe a hundred silver dollars. What's that saying again? "A lot of debt is a burden." Anyway, so far, no one has been named.

IV. Living Within the Bottom Line of Humanity

To live in this world, one must satisfy the basic needs of "food, clothing, shelter, and transportation." Let's start with the intricacies of food.

Of the fifty rickshaw pullers, thirty-nine said they only ate two meals a day, some even only one. In the morning, a flatbread and a bowl of plain water were their breakfast. At noon, they ate a bowl of plain noodles or two flatbreads with dried radish from a roadside stall. When they got home in the evening, their wives would cook a pot of brown rice porridge, which they would eat with braised meat and salted fish—that was their most proper meal of the day.

During festivals and holidays, they could only afford to buy a fish and half a pound of meat, considered a "treat." A reporter overheard a few folk songs that vividly described the rickshaw pullers' lives. One went: "Buying rice, a hat; buying firewood, carrying it in their arms. Living in a thatched hut, the moon serves as their lamp." Another went: "Eating vegetable scraps in the morning, swallowing chaff at noon, wearing tattered clothes. At night, thin soup to reflect the moon, passing the time rolling around in a heated latrine."

A reporter asked a rickshaw driver surnamed Liu, "Can you still work on this kind of food?" He patted his stomach and replied, "I'm used to it. I may be hungry, but I forget about it once I start running."

[Let's talk about clothing. When pulling a cart, you wear a blue cloth uniform with the cart number printed on the back. This is issued by the cart company, not given to you; if you lose it, you have to pay for it. Underneath the uniform is a tattered cotton-padded jacket, patched upon patched. You wear it in winter and summer, only the cotton padding is removed.]

[Footwear? In summer, barefoot; in winter, straw sandals. The better ones used old rubber tires cut into soles and tied them to their feet. Socks? Those were for respectable people.]

Finally, let's talk about accommodations. A reporter personally witnessed the following attire of a rickshaw driver: a small attic less than a person's height, with seven or eight people crammed together. The floor was covered with straw, and people lay on the straw. Bedbugs and lice were so numerous that you could grab handfuls with a single hand. The drivers, exhausted from a long day, would collapse into bed and sleep, oblivious to the bedbug bites. In the trade, this kind of place is called a "study room for the wealthy."

Those with families lived in shantytowns along rivers and lakes. A few bamboo poles and tattered mats formed a makeshift shelter, commonly known as a "rolling dragon" (a type of makeshift dwelling). On rainy days, it rained heavily outside and lightly inside; in winter, it was drafty from all sides. There was no running water, no electricity, and the outhouse was just ten steps away. Even worse, these shantytowns were frequently destroyed by fire; a single fire could wipe everything out. Especially in winter, because the houses were so rudimentary, they needed to burn firewood for warmth, and the more they burned, the easier it was for the fire to start—the poorer they were, the more disasters they attracted.

[Old and frail cart drivers would simply tear off a few burlap sacks to use as mattresses and blankets, and find a roof over their heads to make do; many of them froze to death in the winter.]

This is the "dwelling" of the rickshaw pullers. Calling it home is an understatement; it's more like a temporary shelter to keep them from dying on the road. Their lives are just like this short poem: "Both feet toil without rest, sweat pours like rain, breath is like an ox; muscles, bones, and lungs are injured, all for the sake of food and clothing."

Shen Zishi frowned, repeated the folk song several times, and asked:

"Were these doggerel poems all written by the rickshaw drivers?"

Lin Wangzheng leaned against the headboard and said earnestly:

"There are many more, passed down by word of mouth within this group. They've been wearing them for countless years, yet their lives haven't changed."

The room was quiet for a while.

[V. An ending where no one cares]

[The rickshaw pulling business is a "youth-dependent" profession. People enter in their teens or twenties, pull rickshaws for four or five years, and then their bodies start to break down. Youth is as fleeting as a cicada's.]

The most common illness is lung disease. Driving on the road every day, car exhaust, dust, and extreme temperatures all enter the lungs. Add to that insufficient food and sleep, and the body's constitution weakens, leading to lung disease. Of the fifty people interviewed, fifteen admitted to coughing up blood or experiencing chest pain. One rickshaw driver said that among his acquaintances who had pulled rickshaws for over ten years, very few had healthy lungs.

Another issue is the legs. Years of running wear down the knees, causing varicose veins. By their forties, their legs are like wood, unable to run anymore. A doctor said that no matter how young and strong a rickshaw puller is, if they continue pulling a rickshaw for ten years, they will inevitably develop lung disease and die from coughing up blood. The most crucial point is that many rickshaw pullers are unaware of this problem, or deliberately avoid it—as long as they can endure it, they can pretend they are not sick. Over time, the condition worsens until it is irreversible.

Why? Poverty was the root of the problem. When they could no longer run, no one cared. The rickshaw companies wouldn't support them, the police wouldn't help them. The government? The government's relief centers were unknown. So some begged, some stole, some robbed, and some died in the alleyways, becoming "street corpses." According to those familiar with the city, every winter in Shanghai, at least ten to twenty thousand people froze or starved to death in the alleyways. How many of them were once rickshaw pullers who ran incredibly fast? No one has ever counted.

A fifty-three-year-old rickshaw puller, his hair gray and one leg crippled, was still pulling his rickshaw, but not running; he limped along. He said, "While I can still move, I'll pull as many days as I can. When I can't pull anymore, I'll find a place to lie down and wait to die." His face was expressionless as he said this. It wasn't that he wasn't sad; he had been sad for so long that he was numb. Because no one wanted to ride in his rickshaw.

[And there are even more tragic examples. Last month, in the assassination at Jinliyuan Wharf, Tang Hengzi, the rickshaw puller whose body was half blown off, only appeared briefly in a news report before dying silently. History only remembers Commander Zheng and the arrested revolutionaries, forgetting his two young children and his wife forced into prostitution. This is the fault of us journalists, and the tragedy of this world.]

A rickshaw driver died, and his whole family fell apart. No one asked, no one cared; that's their fate.

Shen Zishi, upon reading the last paragraph, asked curiously:

"How do you know this Tang Hengzi?"

Lin Wangzheng recounted the entire incident.

Shen Zishi's feelings were complicated. On one hand, he admired Lin Wangzheng's truth-seeking character; on the other hand, he admired his courage to speak out against injustice. He then deliberately asked a question:

"Aren't you afraid people will say you're being sentimental or making trouble out of nothing? After all, the rickshaw drivers haven't said anything, and you've stood up for them. Some people will say you're using your pen to bully the rickshaw drivers, making yourself seem superior and trying to act like a savior."

Lin Wangzheng chuckled, his tone of rebuttal calm:

"I'm simply stating what actually happened; that's not being sentimental. People who say these things are probably just unwilling to acknowledge the objective facts."

"In my opinion, if this kind of exposure is misinterpreted as a moral or emotional issue, instead of exploring the true situation of the rickshaw driver, and the exposure of collective problems is reduced to the motivation of personal sympathy, as if everything was caused by our compassion for humanity, then we are no different from people like Xue Dake. This is a shameful act of cover-up."

Shen Zishi nodded, then asked:

"Is there anything else?"

Lin Wangzheng continued to refute:

"Most importantly, nowadays, groups like rickshaw pullers and dockworkers are mostly illiterate and too exhausted from their daily labor to think. How can you expect them to make demands spontaneously? Have those who say they have no complaints actually listened to their grievances? Silence does not mean no complaints."

"I don't believe that newspapers exposing scandals is an act of elitism. Speaking for the general interests of the group as a whole is fundamentally different from an individual 'overstepping their authority.' Otherwise, what is the purpose of newspapers? Is focusing on trivial matters of the women's private lives the only thing journalists should be doing?"

He paused, then spoke with firmness:

"What's that saying? Standing at the entrance to the pursuit of truth is like standing at the entrance to hell. Here, all hesitation must be eradicated, and any cowardice is futile... Go your own way and let others talk."

Confront the bleakness of life and face the dripping blood.

Shen Zishi was speechless and continued reading.

[VI. Pitiful and Tragic]

At this point, the reporter must pause to say a few words of fairness.

Rickshaw pullers are indeed pitiful. But there are also many things about them that make one's head spin.

An old Shanghai resident told a reporter, "Most of the rickshaw pullers in Shanghai are from north of the Yangtze River. They are hardworking and resilient, which is certainly commendable. However, they are uneducated, lack knowledge, and are simple-minded. In the deceitful and bustling city of Shanghai, their original simple and honest nature has been worn away, replaced by a deceitful, greedy, barbaric, and despicable character. Whether male or female, Shanghai residents invariably feel deep resentment and pain when they think of rickshaw pullers, and they cannot express any goodwill towards them."

This statement may sound harsh, but the reporter's investigation revealed that it is based on factual evidence.

[Let's start with fraud. The "switching of counterfeit silver coins" mentioned earlier is one example. Others steal from passengers when they're not looking. In the rickshaw driver's slang, stealing from passengers is called "knocking on a steel plate," and out-of-town passengers are called "suckers." Every year, there are at least dozens of cases of rickshaw drivers being caught stealing from passengers.]

[Furthermore, there's alcoholism, gambling, opium addiction, and prostitution. Reporters personally witnessed in the inns and shantytowns where rickshaw pullers lived: groups of three or five playing dominoes, huddled in corners smoking opium by lamplight, and drunkenly rolling around in the mud—you name it. According to insiders familiar with the trade, if rickshaw pullers had even a little extra money, nine out of ten would head to casinos, opium dens, or brothels.]

A rickshaw driver confessed to a reporter: "Pulling a rickshaw is too hard. After a day's work, my legs feel like lead. I can't sleep without a drink or two. I feel restless without gambling. I don't have a wife, and I feel suffocated if I don't look for women. Anyway, I can't save any money, so I just live for the moment."

This sounds like the truth, but it's also an excuse. If they win money, they treat themselves to a good meal; if they lose, they borrow money at exorbitant interest rates; once they're addicted to opium, they can't quit; they contract venereal diseases from prostitutes, and without money for treatment, they fester. What's the final result? They become poorer, more miserable, and die even faster. These vices become their fatal economic wounds, and also the vampires that leech off them.

Another major problem was public security. Rickshaw pullers were numerous and powerful, and many had gang connections; if they caused trouble, it would lead to major chaos. Turf wars, brawls, and shop vandalism were frequent occurrences. At the borders between concessions, between concessions and Chinese-controlled areas, and at the intersections of streets, rickshaw pullers from different gangs would often fight each other, resulting in bloodshed. Some pullers even colluded with bandits, scouting locations by day and leading thieves at night.

The passengers may not know these things, or they may pretend not to know, but journalists cannot pretend not to know. The question is, why have they fallen to this point?

When someone is driven to a dead end, they often do things that push them further into despair. This isn't their fault, but the fault of the world. Conversely, if the rickshaw drivers themselves are unreliable and indulge in vices like drinking, gambling, and prostitution, outsiders can't help them, and society's impression of them deteriorates further—this is a seemingly unsolvable vicious cycle.

"That makes sense. If someone doesn't even dare to speak up about their own faults and only talks about how others bully them, then the article is unfair. You wrote about their suffering and their mistakes, that's fair."

"I can't pretend they're all saints. There are no saints in this world. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. Their weaknesses aren't their fault; it's the world that forces people to be this way. But conversely, if even they themselves don't live up to expectations, no one else can help them."

"Yes, it's a bit harsh, but it's the truth."

"Actually, I wrote these things to give the authorities a way out."

"What steps?"

"Steps that go down the slope..."

7. How much bitterness is swallowed behind the words "bad luck"?

The reporter asked everyone, "Why do you think you pull the cart while others ride in it?" The answer was surprisingly consistent: "Bad luck."

A rickshaw puller in his early thirties, who had attended a private school for three years, spoke a little more: "Others are born into good families, studying, becoming officials, and getting rich. I was born into a poor family and have been hungry since childhood. It's not that I'm unwilling to work, but no matter how hard I work, I can't change my fate. After pulling a rickshaw for ten years, I haven't saved a single copper coin. When I'm sick, no one cares for me; when I'm old, no one supports me. Tell me, what is this if not fate? So why struggle?"

The reporter then asked, "Have you ever considered that this isn't just a matter of fate?" He paused, then shook his head blankly, "If I don't blame fate, who can I blame?"

This is their "reasoning." It's not that they don't want to think, it's that they don't have time to think, and no one teaches them to think. Every day, they open their eyes to the thought of renting a car, and close them to the thought of whether they'll have the energy to run tomorrow. They live at the very bottom of society, seeing only the glass windows of mansions, the cars on the road, and the dresses worn by ladies. These things are too far removed from them, as distant as another world.

When things get too far away, you stop thinking about it. When you stop thinking about it, you accept it. When you accept it, you become numb. When you become numb, all that's left is drinking, gambling, and opium smoking—using momentary pleasure to mask momentary suffering. In the shantytown of rickshaw pullers, a reporter asked one huddled in a corner smoking opium, "You only earn a few coins a day, why do you smoke this?" He squinted and said, "If I didn't smoke, I'd be heartbroken. If I smoked, I wouldn't think about it anymore." The reporter was speechless.

Another kind of suffering is being looked down upon. Passengers rarely even glance at the driver. Calling him a "stinking beggar" is considered polite. If the police beat you, you can't fight back; you have to smile obsequiously. Living like this for a long time wears down a person's self-respect. One driver numbly told a reporter, "We're laborers, nobody looks down on us, we deserve to be beaten."

In the countryside, though poor, they were at least farmers, the pillars of their families. In the city, they became the lowest of the low, working alongside latrine workers and street cleaners. This enormous fall from grace wasn't their choice; society pushed them down. This shift from the "center" to the "periphery" trampled their dignity into the dust.

Shen Zishi fell into deep thought.

This mentality isn't unique to rickshaw pullers; he's had it too...

Why am I running a newspaper in Shanghai while others are officials in the Presidential Palace?

When you can't figure things out, you can only resort to "bad luck," but this explanation is too vague and can only comfort yourself.

In short, if an article can provoke critical thinking in readers, then it is a good article.

[8. The trams have arrived; is this the end for rickshaw pullers?]

Another source of pressure came from new modes of transportation, primarily trams. Trams carried more passengers, were faster, and were cheaper—a trip on a tram cost only a few coins, while a rickshaw ride cost several times more. Citizens weren't fools; naturally, they chose the cheaper option. As a result, the rickshaw business declined day by day.

The rickshaw drivers hate trams and public transportation in general. Not because they hate the trams themselves, but because they hate that they've taken away their livelihoods. In some places, the drivers band together to vandalize trams, smashing windows and cutting power lines. But what good does it do? The tram company repairs them, the police arrest them, and in the end, they're the ones who suffer.

Some scholars advocate abolishing rickshaws, arguing that it's "animalistic labor," a form of "replacing animals with humans," and inhumane. This is true. But the question is: what will happen to the hundreds of thousands of rickshaw pullers in the Xia Kingdom if rickshaws are abolished? Should they be put to drive trams? They're illiterate and can't learn. Should they go to factories? Factories need young apprentices; no one wants forty-year-old rickshaw pullers. Should they return to the countryside? The land there is still the same land damaged by floods, droughts, and heavy taxes; they'll still have no food to eat if they go back.

This is not just a problem of one industry; it's a problem of people's livelihood in our country, and it deserves serious discussion by sociologists.

Shen Zishi pointed to the manuscript and asked:

"What does writing this mean?"

Lin Wangzheng couldn't hold on any longer and lay down, saying:

"What I mean is that the rickshaw pulling profession will eventually be eliminated, but what will happen to those rickshaw pullers after that? That's the most important question. We can't pursue humanitarianism on one hand and let these people starve on the other, can we? This is something that philanthropists, sociologists, and politicians need to think about carefully. I'm just raising the question."

Shen Zishi understood it perfectly and turned to the last part.

IX. People's livelihood is a mirror of politics.

[At this point, the reporter must be a bit harsh. Fifty rickshaw pullers, fifty stories. But ultimately, these fifty stories are one—the countryside went bankrupt, and people fled to the city. Finding no work in the city, they became rickshaw pullers. Once they started, they were exploited by the rickshaw company, exploited by the police, and then trampled on by unreasonable passengers. When they fell ill, no one cared; when they grew old, no one inquired; when they died, no one buried them. From beginning to end, they weren't "living," but simply "enduring." Enduring today, enduring tomorrow, enduring until they died someday.]

Whose fault is this? Some say it's "fate," but this reporter doesn't believe in fate. The tragic fate of the rickshaw pullers didn't fall from the sky; it was created by the system, the power dynamics, and the people on the ground. Those bosses and foremen sitting in their mansions, scheming to maximize their rental fees; those police officers wielding batons, making a fortune by prying off license plates; those adults only concerned with their own promotions and wealth, never glancing at the corpses on the roadside—these are probably the real driving forces behind all of this.

What's even more infuriating is that some people not only fail to address these problems, but also advocate for "constitutional monarchy to save the country," claiming that only an emperor can govern the nation. It's as if simply replacing the emperor will instantly strengthen the army, enrich the country, and ensure the people have enough to eat. This reporter would like to ask these gentlemen: Do you know how many rickshaw pullers there are on the Shanghai Bund? Do you know how many meals they eat a day, where they sleep, and what happens when they get sick? Do you know that a rickshaw puller dies after five and a half years? Will your lofty pronouncements and grand theories of "constitutional monarchy to save the country" allow them to eat one more meal or live two more years?

The quality of a government isn't judged by its name, but by the lives of its people. If people are poorly clothed, starving, without medical care, and destitute in their old age, what good is replacing "co-governance" with "monarchy" or the president with an emperor? It's just a change of form, not substance, or even the same thing—just a different bowl.

[The reporter isn't saying that co-governance is without its problems. Co-governance has its flaws, but the problems aren't in the name itself, they're in the substance. They lie in those who treat national affairs as their private property, in those bureaucrats and politicians who only know how to fight for power and profit and are oblivious to the suffering of the people. If you don't address these problems and only think about changing the name, that's not treatment, that's just fooling around.]

[The reporter isn't trying to promote anything. The reporter is simply writing down what they see, hear, and investigate. To let passengers know that the person running ahead, bent over, also has a life. To let those in power know that if ordinary people can't make ends meet, no matter what banner they change, they can't hold their position. To let those who talk about "constitutional monarchy" and "co-governance" know that their pretty words are worthless in the face of the driver's ailing leg and coughing up blood.]

"Wang Zheng, your article is not just about the rickshaw driver."

Shen Zishi leaned back in his chair and said.

He discovered that Lin Wangzheng's articles had a very obvious characteristic: they combined politics and people's livelihood, rather than separating them clearly.

When attacking Xue Dake, he would use people's livelihood as material; when exposing people's livelihood, he would also attack Xue Dake in the process.

Many contemporary journalists also frequently employ this method.

Perhaps this is precisely where the fighting spirit lies.

Lin Wangzheng put his hands behind his head and said:

"I know I'm cursing Yuan Shikai, the Preparatory Committee for the Establishment of Peace, and those who don't care about people's livelihood."

Shen Zishi didn't dampen their spirits, but instead offered words of comfort:

"Just don't mention names..."