He’s like a neighbor, only without a house.

Story of Zhang Xiao

Hello everyone, my name is Zhang Xiao, from Beijing Hefeng Social Work Service Office.

Today I want to share a topic with you: He is like a neighbor, only without a house.

Let’s begin by greeting these neighbors.

If you have ever gone to a 24-hour KFC or McDonald’s late at night, you must have seen scenes like this:

you will find some people sitting inside who don’t seem to order anything,

they just sit there all night.

You will also see some people who simply find a corner and fall asleep.

Between these people and the store clerks there seems to be a kind of tacit understanding —

the clerks don’t drive them away.

You may have seen underpasses like this,

where some people have pots and bowls by their side,

as if they actually live there.

If you have withdrawn cash at night,

you may have also seen such a scene:

some people directly live inside the space of an ATM machine.

I don’t know — if you were to withdraw money at that moment,

would you still go inside after seeing that?

And there are others for whom we cannot even name a setting —

they just sleep directly on the streets.

When we see such scenes, what is our first reaction?

In most cases, we feel that they are dirty, that they are frightening;

if I came across such a situation, I might walk around them.

But if we look at the same group of people in the daytime,

you might see a different side of them.

Some of them work as laborers on construction sites,

some pick up recyclables,

some become the sanitation workers around us,

and some go into the wholesale markets for agricultural products

to unload fruits and vegetables from trucks.

Most of them, like us, seem to have their own things to do.

They pack their belongings,

and join the flow of people along with us.

We call this group of people who are homeless at night and sleep on the street street sleepers.

Our organization is a social work agency with eight full-time staff members

who provide services specifically for street sleepers,

helping them leave street life.

We have given ourselves a mission:

to help every friend who sleeps on the street gain the power of being respected.

When we first began to approach this group in 2014,

we ourselves had many questions.

Who are they?

Why don’t they go home?

Why do they sleep on the streets?

So, from the summer of 2014 to the spring of 2015,

we conducted a large-scale survey of all the street sleepers within Beijing’s Third Ring Road.

Within the entire group of street sleepers,

there were petitioners and people who had given up petitioning,

migrant workers who had not yet found jobs,

recyclers,

people who had run away from home,

those without family support,

some who seemed mentally unwell,

and also beggars — whom all of us have seen.

In reality, within the street sleeper group,

they follow the most primitive, even survival-of-the-fittest jungle rules.

For example, younger sleepers will rob older ones — things like instant noodles.

I want to mention beggars separately,

because within the street sleeper community itself,

begging is also looked down upon or rejected.

Street sleepers, like us, also believe:

“I have hands and feet.

Look, I already sleep on the street,

but I still won’t reach out and ask others for money.”

So, I want to say — most of the beggars we meet

very likely are not truly homeless,

or their behavior is actually organized begging.

Alright, back to the main question:

why do they sleep outside at all?

If you know something about our country’s current social assistance system,

you might ask further:

since there are relief shelters,

why do most of them not go and receive help?

Let’s see what they themselves say.Who are they? Why do they sleep on the streets?

He is called “145.”

He is one of the people we serve.

When we first came into contact with street sleepers,

we often didn’t know their real names,

so we gave them code names based on some of their traits.

Later, after we got familiar with them,

we got used to those nicknames and never bothered to change them.

That’s how they stayed.

We called him “145” because he was only one meter forty-five tall — quite short.

At first, he came to Beijing to find a job but couldn’t.

In order to reduce the cost of survival,

he began sleeping on the street.

Later, he found a job — but still slept outside.

Why? Because accommodation costs money.

Then someone asked him,

“You’re already living like this, why don’t you just go home?

At least back home you’d have a roof over your head.”

But when you ask that question,

you see another side of “145.”

He is also the father of a two-year-old child.

After divorcing his wife,

the child stayed with his brother and sister-in-law.

So “145” knew very clearly —

if he went home,

his brother and sister-in-law would hand the child back to him.

He felt he had no ability to raise the child,

and he didn’t want to.

So we realized:

many street sleepers live on the street

because they cannot adapt to social roles —

as a parent,

as a child,

as a spouse,

even as a subordinate or superior.

Many people sleep on the street because they cannot fit into those roles.

They would rather sleep outdoors

than return to the environment they came from.

So, “145” is someone who has a home, but doesn’t want to go back.

Then there’s a man we call “Lottery.”

He is another of our service recipients — and a particularly endearing one.

“Lottery” is a native Beijinger.

He once committed a crime and was sentenced to ten years in prison.

After he served his time and was released,

he was left with a kind of lingering fear —

a fear of police,

or rather, a fear of any form of authority.

Whenever he saw someone in uniform,

he stammered and couldn’t get a word out.

After being released, his first thought was to go home,

but his family refused to take him back.

They did not recognize him anymore.

Later, “Lottery” went to the neighborhood office

to apply for minimum living support,

for social relief.

We don’t know exactly what others said to him there,

but in his own words,

“The door is hard to enter, faces are hard to see, words are hard to hear.”

We told him, “You should keep trying, apply again.”

He said, “It’s not that I don’t want to.

I just don’t want to fight that battle with them.”

So he preferred to sleep on the street,

to make a living by collecting recyclables,

rather than go again to apply for help.

“Lottery’s” daily routine looked like this:

he pushed a tricycle around Beijing,

searching through trash bins,

picking up anything that could be sold.

At dusk, he went to a recycling depot

and sold everything he had collected.

If the depot happened to be loading a truck

to ship the recyclables out of Beijing,

he would help with that too.

By the end of a day,

he made just under one hundred yuan.

That amount was awkward —

enough for food and water,

but not enough to rent a place to live.

It wasn’t until our second year of helping “Lottery”

that his fear of authority began to ease.

Together we helped him reapply for minimum living support.

For us, that was the second year of working with him;

for “Lottery,” it was his twentieth year living on the streets.

We’ve talked about those who have a home but can’t go back,

and those who have a home but don’t want to go back.

Now, let’s look at someone who has a home that pushes her out.

She is called “Fourth Sister.”

She was referred to us by another social work organization.

She was brought to Beijing by a fellow villager to “do business.”

Their so-called business was prostitution.

Later, the brothel was raided by the police.

Because “Fourth Sister” was underage,

the police only gave her a warning and released her.

But then she faced the question:

“I can’t go back to that brothel. Where am I supposed to go now?”

We contacted the Beijing Juvenile Protection Center,

and the staff there helped her find temporary housing,

and planned to send her home later.

But we ourselves started thinking —

we needed to contact her family right away

so they would know what had happened.

So we called her mother and explained the situation.

Her mother said,

“All the girls in our village are like that.

If they’re not, how can they make a living?

Who would give them money otherwise?”

We thought, this mother isn’t going to help,

so we called her father instead.

Her father said,

“I’m working outside.

I don’t handle family matters.

If you people have the ability, you can keep her —

I’m giving you this daughter.”

So that’s how it was.

“Fourth Sister” had a family,

but the family was the one pushing her out.

Now let’s talk about someone who truly has no family — “Brother Dao.”

He is one of our older clients.

When he was young, he was a well-known figure in the southern part of Beijing.

Later he was convicted for illegal trade and sentenced to ten years of re-education through labor.

During his sentence,

the labor camp was restructured and became a prison.

So when “Brother Dao” completed his term,

the document he received was a prison release certificate.

He brought it back to Beijing and went to the authorities to restore his household registration.

But they told him,

“You left for a labor camp,

and now you bring a certificate from a prison.

You first have to prove that the labor camp and the prison are the same place.”

“Brother Dao” asked, “Then who am I supposed to ask to prove that?”

Then he thought, Forget it. It’s just a household registration. I’ll live without it. I’m still alive, aren’t I?

That was what he thought at the time.In the following ten-plus years, “Brother Dao” kept doing small business with his friends.

The business grew larger and larger,

until the two of them decided to open a company together.

His friend said to him,

“It’d be great if you had a household registration.

If you did, I could list you as a shareholder,

and we could earn money together.”

At that point, “Brother Dao” thought,

“I should probably go get my household registration back.”

But during those ten-plus years of business,

the country had moved toward paperless administration,

and most offices had switched to computers.

Meanwhile, the prison where he served his time had been renovated several times.

So when “Brother Dao” went from Beijing back to the Northeast,

he found himself in an awkward situation:

everyone remembered him,

everyone confirmed that he had indeed served there and been released,

but when he asked for official proof,

they said, “Sorry, we don’t have the original records. We can’t issue anything for you.”

So “Brother Dao” kept traveling back and forth between Beijing and the Northeast —

Beijing to the Northeast, and back again.

By the time he made his last trip,

he was seventy-four years old.

Most of his peers and relatives had already passed away.

Then he suddenly realized —

even if he did get that release certificate,

it wouldn’t mean anything anymore,

because there was no one left willing to take him in.

He had one nephew left,

but they had never lived together,

and the nephew didn’t want the responsibility.

At that point, “Brother Dao” completely lost hope,

and chose to live on the street.

We met another man, Grandpa Guo, in an interesting way.

A business owner contacted us and said,

“There’s an old man who’s been living for years under our office building.

I can’t bear to see an old person sleeping outside in the freezing winter.

I want to rent him a place, hire a caretaker,

and take care of him for the rest of his life.

Can you ask him if he’s willing?”

So we went to find “Grandpa Guo.”

We explained the situation and asked him,

“Would you be willing to accept this?”

The old man said, “No, I don’t want that.

I’m ninety-four this year.

I was a refugee from Shandong,

and I came into Beijing with the People’s Liberation Army in 1949.

There’s nothing I haven’t seen.

Now I can eat two sausages a day and have a sip of white liquor —

I’m satisfied.

I’ve never lived in a house with heating in my whole life.

If you put me in one and roast me under a heater every day,

you’d roast me to death.”

Later, as we talked more,

we found out there was another reason he didn’t want to leave.

He had lived in that spot for nearly forty years.

He knew everything that happened above ground —

the people, the events, all of it.

Sometimes, old police officers would bring their apprentices to meet him.

They would tell the new recruits,

“This man knows a lot about our area.

If there’s something you don’t understand,

come and ask the old gentleman.”

This made “Grandpa Guo” very proud.

As he put it,

“Here, people still recognize me.

If I leave this place, I’m nobody.”

Then there are others — people who, when you first meet them,

you have no idea what they’re saying.

They seem to have mental problems.

‘Old Gao’ was one of them.

When we first met him,

the first thing he said was, “Do you practice kung fu?”

We said, “What kind of kung fu?”

He replied, “I’m practicing the Yijinjing (Muscle-Tendon Transformation Classic).

I’m telling you, don’t bother me.

Go away, go away, go away!”

And he drove us off.

You see, with the street sleepers we meet,

it’s really hard to categorize them.

We can’t say they’re a particular type of person,

or that they all fit a single description.

We simply can’t classify them that way.

But what we can say is:

every street sleeper lives on their own island.

Some are trapped by their own bodies.

Some are trapped by their social roles.

Some are trapped by a single thought,

or a knot in their hearts.

And what we social workers try to do

is help them step off their islands.Social workers have many professional methods, ethics, and values —

but when you first approach street sleepers, none of that really matters.

What truly matters is breaking the ice.

How do you establish trust with someone who sleeps on the street?

There is no single way to break the ice.

Every street sleeper is different.

Some are easy to talk to — you hand them a cigarette,

and they open up right away, chatting freely.

Others take four, five, six visits

before they slowly let down their guard.

And for some, you have to enter their world completely.

For example, one man believed there was a chip implanted in his body.

He thought someone far away was controlling him,

and that the person speaking through him wasn’t himself.

To talk with him, you had to truly believe that —

believe there was a chip inside him,

that he was being controlled from afar.

Only then would he feel you were someone he could talk to —

someone on the same side.

There was another man who jumped on every manhole cover he saw.

He believed he was sealing evil spirits beneath the covers,

and that only he could do it.

So, when we saw him, we had to believe that too —

that there really was something underground,

and that he was protecting everyone from it.

Only by entering his world

could we start a real conversation.

And sometimes, there are strange situations

where we can’t even tell whether they’re joking or serious.

For instance, one insisted on speaking only English.

So you would see two Chinese people

on the street, using awkward English to talk —

things like, “Why are you sleep here?”

It looked absurd, but that’s what it took.

There really is no universal rule for breaking the ice.

But once the ice is broken,

you start to see completely different people emerge.

Take “Old Gao,” for example.

When we first met, he kept asking if we practiced kung fu.

Later, he said, “If you want to train with me,

you have to start with Shaolin Long Fist.”

Of course, we didn’t know how.

So we bought a book called Illustrated Shaolin Long Fist,

read a few pages,

and went back to ask him questions —

“What does this mean? How do you do that move?”

Eventually we realized that even he didn’t seem to understand it very well.

We teased him: “You don’t really know this stuff either, do you?”

He said, “Ah, no, I told you wrong.

It’s not Long Fist — it’s the Washing Marrow Classic (Xisuijing).

You need to practice that first!”

So, we bought Illustrated Xisuijing,

something like “Understand the Washing Marrow Classic in One Picture.”

We went back and asked him about it too.

Turns out — he didn’t know that one either.

Over time, we realized something.

He was wrapping himself in a shell of “kung fu practice.”

But as that shell slowly came off,

we saw another “Old Gao.”

In his logic, he practiced kung fu

so that he could appear a little abnormal every day.

He wanted to seem not quite right —

because when someone came to drive him away from his spot,

he could act even more abnormal,

and people wouldn’t bother him.

You know how it is —

most people won’t argue with someone who looks mentally unstable.

That was how “Old Gao” managed to protect his sleeping place —

how he didn’t have to move.

That was his reasoning.

Later we asked him,

“You’re a Beijinger,

and you qualify for public housing —

why not apply?”

He said, “I did. They just wouldn’t give it to me.”

That sounded odd to us,

so we went to the neighborhood office to check.

The staff there told us,

“Yes, he did come and ask about it,

but he didn’t even fill out the form.

Then he just left and disappeared.”

So we went back and confronted him.

Only then did he tell us the truth:

“I can’t read very well.

When they asked me to fill out a form,

I got scared they’d look down on me,

so I left.”

Later we helped him step by step

through the whole application process.

Because he was over sixty,

he qualified for priority in public housing.

Soon, he was assigned his own apartment.

Before he even moved in, we brought him to see it.

As soon as he got the keys,

he kept muttering,

“This place isn’t good. Too far from downtown.

I’ll still have to come back to the city.”

But in truth, his apartment was very nice.

It came pre-furnished —

with a gas stove, exhaust fan, everything.

We even raised money for cookware and bowls,

so he could live comfortably.

In the next two months,

he only returned to the city twice —

and both times to visit us.

Once, he came to return a phone.

When he was applying for housing,

we had lent him a phone

so we could contact him more easily.

Now that he had saved a bit of money,

he said, “You lent me this, and what’s lent must be returned.

You’ll need it for the next person you help.”

Moments like that —

those small, quiet gestures —

are what keep us social workers going.

In cases like “Old Gao,”

we just had to push him forward, step by step.This is “Xiao Chen.”

She was a young woman who came to Beijing looking for a job,

but her expectations for herself were too high.

She was certain she would find good work quickly.

After interviewing at several places and being rejected each time,

she couldn’t understand why.

Before long, her money ran out.

She moved from cheap hostels to sleeping on the street.

As days went by, her body started to smell.

When you live on the streets,

you barely talk to anyone,

and soon your speech slows,

you stop wanting to communicate at all.

So what could we do?

We started by helping her change her appearance.

We found a place for her to bathe,

washed her hair, tied it up neatly.

Then we gave her a crash course —

how to introduce yourself at an interview,

how to respond when customers have complaints,

how to interact naturally with colleagues.

After all that, she went for another interview.

This time, she got a job —

as a waitress in a well-known restaurant chain.

She met a kind manager there

who taught her everything step by step.

So when a street sleeper’s expectations for herself are too high,

you sometimes have to gently pull her back to earth.

Some people have asked us:

“Are there lazy ones among street sleepers —

those who simply don’t want to work at all?”

I’ll be honest: yes, there are.

When our social workers go out to the streets —

what we call outreach —

we approach unfamiliar sleepers

and ask things like,

“Why are you here? Do you want to change your situation?

Would you like help?”

In that process,

we often meet people who say,

“I’m not lazy! I’ve been working hard to find a job —

but I can’t find one.”

We ask, “Why not?”

They say, “I don’t know where to look.”

Or, “Everywhere needs a résumé, and I don’t have one.”

Or, “Those factories are too far away — I don’t know how to get there.”

So we came up with the ‘Mobile Office Desk’ project.

The idea was simple:

if people can’t come to us,

we’ll bring the office to them.

We carried desks, laptops, printers —

everything we needed —

right to the places where they were sleeping.

We’d say, “You want a job?

What kind?

Sit here.

In 30 minutes we’ll make you a résumé.”

Then we’d call companies to confirm openings,

print directions, and hand them a card:

the company’s name and address,

who to contact,

their phone number,

and detailed bus routes from where the sleeper was sitting

to where the job was.

“Now go,” we’d tell them. “You can start today.”

But even with everything ready,

fewer than one-third of them

were willing to actually get up and go.

Then something unexpected happened.

While the “lazy” ones didn’t show up much,

other people did —

those who weren’t sleeping on the streets

but had just arrived in Beijing and hadn’t found jobs yet.

They started crowding around us,

lining up for help.

Soon we had to give out numbers,

processing twenty or thirty people a day.

After a while, even black-market job brokers came to us,

saying, “You’ve got a good flow of workers.

Send them to us, and we’ll pay you five or ten yuan per person.”

Of course, we refused.

Later, that project ended —

because the last labor market inside Beijing’s Third Ring Road was shut down.

After that, people looking for work became more scattered,

and it became harder to reach them efficiently.

“Street Corner Roses”

Later, we started another project called “Street Corner Roses.”

It focused specifically on female street sleepers.

We distributed sanitary pads, condoms,

and personal alarms.

Before that, we had a small incident that opened our eyes.

During outreach,

we always carried supplies — food, water, daily necessities —

to hand out to those in need.

Every Lunar New Year’s Eve,

we’d also make dumplings and deliver them to sleepers,

along with “Fu” characters for good luck,

so they could feel a bit of the holiday warmth.

One year, we met an older woman who took the dumplings,

burst into tears,

and said,

“I’ve been sleeping outside for years.

I never thought I’d eat a bowl of hot dumplings on New Year’s Eve again.”

She was so moved she wanted to give something back —

but she had nothing.

So she said, “Wait a moment.

I’ll write you a thank-you letter.”

Then she crawled into her makeshift shelter to write.

When she handed us the note,

one of our coworkers noticed something odd about the paper.

He asked, “Auntie, where did you get this paper?”

She looked puzzled and said,

“What’s so strange? We all use this kind of paper — for the toilet.”

Our female colleague then asked, gently,

“If that’s what you use…

what do you do when you have your period?”

The woman blushed,

embarrassed,

and said,

“What else can we do?

We use this paper too — with a bit of dry grass for padding.”

That conversation hit us hard.

We realized that for female sleepers,

something as basic as sanitary pads

was a luxury item.

So we began distributing them.

We also handed out condoms —

not to encourage anything,

but because some street sleepers,

to make their lives easier,

form temporary partnerships —

“halfway couples,” or “one-night couples.”

Some even have children while still living on the streets.

We don’t encourage pregnancy in that situation,

so giving out condoms

wasn’t about morality —

it was about giving them a choice.

Not “I have or I don’t,”

but “I can choose to use or not.”

We also started giving out personal alarms.

Because in truth,

for women sleeping on the street,

every night carries danger.

Not only from male sleepers,

but from anyone.

We wanted them to have something —

anything —

that could help them call for help

when they had no strength left to resist.

When we applied for funding for this project,

some experts were surprised:

“How did you think of adding a gender perspective

to homeless services?”

We laughed and said,

“We didn’t know what a gender perspective was.

We just saw what was happening.”

For us, it wasn’t theory.

It was lived experience —

reflection from practice.At the end of last year and the beginning of this one,

we started an unusual project —

the Homeless Robot Soccer Team.

Yes, an actual soccer team

made up of people who sleep on the streets.

The idea came from an international competition

where homeless people from around the world

form national teams and play in a “Homeless World Cup.”

It’s meant to show that the homeless, too,

are full of vitality and hope.

We thought: why not do something similar in China?

So we brought the idea to “Lottery.”

We said, “Hey, let’s start a soccer team.”

“Lottery” looked at us and said,

“Come on, don’t make fun of us.

We’re already miserable enough.

You want us old, weak, sick people to play football?

You trying to kill us?”

We laughed and said,

“Okay, you don’t have to play.

But do you like soccer?”

He immediately lit up:

“Of course! I’m a die-hard Beijing Guoan fan.”

“Then let’s play robot soccer,” we told him.

“You don’t have to run —

you just press buttons. The robots move.”

At first, none of them thought

robot soccer had anything to do with life on the streets.

But as social workers, we knew the real goal:

connection.

If they joined a team,

they would have to meet others,

talk to strangers,

and cooperate toward something.

That’s how we start bridging the gap

between “them” and the rest of society.

Training on the Streets

Training wasn’t easy.

You hardly ever see ten or more street sleepers together anymore.

These days, even two or three sharing a spot

is considered a “large group.”

So all our training happened right where they lived —

on the streets.

We’d carry boards, robots, controllers

to wherever they stayed,

and teach them patiently:

“This button goes forward,

that one goes back.”

It took a long time,

but before the matches started,

they finally gathered together —

a real team —

and we ran some tactical drills.

Then came the matches.

We actually took them to play several games.

One of the most memorable

was against a rescue shelter team.

We invited the shelter staff

to play against the homeless players.

From the very beginning,

the atmosphere was… tense.

Quiet. Awkward.

Before kickoff, “Lottery” whispered to us,

“You’re not joking, right?

You really want us to play them?

What if, after the game,

they round us all up and send us away?”

That fear is common.

Most street sleepers can’t tell who’s who —

who’s from the rescue station,

who’s from civil affairs,

who’s police,

who’s urban management.

Uniforms blur together.

Even those who’ve been bullied by unofficial “enforcers”

associate the uniforms with danger.

So yes — “Lottery” and his friends were scared.

A Strange, Silent Game

Then the match began.

In the room,

you could only hear the soft click click

of controllers being pressed.

No cheers, no shouting.

Just quiet focus.

When it ended,

no one celebrated.

No one even looked at the score.

They simply put the controllers down

and left silently.

It might have seemed like nothing changed.

But that quiet game

planted a small seed.

What Happened During the Pandemic

Then came the pandemic.

For street sleepers,

it was devastating.

When cities locked down,

everyone stayed indoors —

which meant the homeless

could no longer rely on charity.

No one was out to give them food or clothes.

Neighborhoods sealed off their gates,

so they couldn’t even enter to collect recyclables.

Even if they did,

they couldn’t sell them —

the recycling stations were closed.

Some had small savings,

but discovered they couldn’t buy food —

shops were shut too.

It was one of the hardest times they’d ever faced.

And that’s when we noticed something incredible.

Those who had once played on the robot soccer team —

“Lottery” among them —

started coming to us voluntarily.

They said,

“You know the rescue center people, right?

We played ball with them before.

They seemed okay.

Can you ask if we can stay there for a while?”

So we contacted the local authorities.

It turned out that during the pandemic,

Xicheng District’s Civil Affairs Bureau

had set up a temporary rescue and quarantine center —

a hotel-style shelter

offering 14 days of accommodation and medical screening

for homeless and stranded people.

We applied on their behalf,

and soon they were admitted.

They spent those freezing, uncertain days

in warmth and safety.

From Fear to Trust

To us, that was the real victory.

The soccer match hadn’t changed their lives overnight.

But it had done something deeper —

it built trust.

The journey from fear to trust

can take months, even years.

Many of the people we help

have been sleeping rough for five, ten, twenty years.

Change doesn’t happen in a moment.

But every small interaction —

every shared laugh,

every silent soccer game —

chips away at the walls around them.

Only through repeated contact,

through shared experiences,

can they truly take that step off their island.

A Thousand Causes, a Thousand Paths

We often say:

there are ten thousand reasons

why someone ends up sleeping on the street.

So there should also be ten thousand ways

to help them find their way back.

In the past six years,

we’ve met thousands of street sleepers.

Of those, perhaps two hundred

were willing to accept help.

And of those,

maybe thirty each year

truly managed to leave the streets behind.

Sometimes, they disappear again.

Sometimes, they fall back.

Each time that happens,

it hurts.

But every time someone succeeds —

or even just lives a little better —

we feel re-energized,

ready to keep looking for the next person who needs us.

If You Also Want to Help a Street Sleeper

Over the past six years,

people have often asked us the same question:

“I’m not a social worker,

but when I see them —

I feel so bad.

I want to help.

What should I do?”

Let’s imagine for a moment.

If you were the one sleeping on the street,

and had been there for some time —

how would it feel

when someone suddenly walked up to you and said:

“Why are you sleeping here?

Where’s your family?

Should I call the police for you?

Should I contact your relatives?”

Would that feel like a revelation?

Would you think,

“Oh! I forgot I could call the police!”

Of course not.

You’d think:

“If I could call… or wanted to call…

I would’ve done it already.”

Then another person might come and say,

“You have two hands and two feet!

Go get a job instead of lying here!”

Would that make you suddenly determined to change?

No.

You’d probably just feel tired.

Ashamed.

Misunderstood.

Then another person comes,

takes out their phone,

snaps a few pictures without a word,

and posts them online:

“This poor homeless person, sleeping on the street…

Why doesn’t anyone care?

What’s wrong with our society?”

What would you feel then?

Anger?

Humiliation?

Or maybe just the dull ache of being looked at

but never truly seen.

And the worst part —

parents passing by with their kids.

You hear them say,

“Study hard, or you’ll end up like him — begging on the street.”

If you were that person on the ground,

how would you understand this society?

How would you see the people walking past you every day?

The Smallest Kindness

So if you really want to help —

start small.

When winter comes

and you see someone still sleeping outside,

shivering in the wind,

you can approach gently and ask:

“Would you like something warm to drink?

A hot meal?”

If they say yes —

go buy it.

No need for photos, no need for proof.

Just give it quietly.

If you see someone sleeping peacefully in a corner,

please —

don’t disturb them.

For many, that’s the only safe sleep they’ll have all day.

And if you truly want to hear their stories —

then enter their world first.

Spend time.

Listen to how they understand themselves,

and the world around them.

Respecting Choice

Even if they decide

to continue sleeping on the street,

to make no change at all —

please respect that.

Don’t assume that you know what’s best.

Don’t make decisions for them.

Don’t post their photos online

or call for “rescue” they never asked for.

Because in a diverse, complex society,

there are many ways to live.

Street sleepers are not aliens,

nor symbols of tragedy.

They are human beings —

with reasons,

with stories,

with dignity.

They live among us.

They are our neighbors.

Only difference is —

they don’t have a house.

Epilogue

Zhang Xiao ends her talk quietly:

“He is like a neighbor — only without a house. And every one of us has the power to make this neighborhood a little warmer.”

A cup of hot water.

A conversation.

A little respect.

Sometimes, that’s enough

to remind someone —

and ourselves —

that we still belong

to the same world.