在巴黎，你不需要刻意尋找悲傷。
它就坐在街邊的屋簷下，
倚在地下道的連接處，
或蹲在麵包店的透明櫥窗旁。

它也許醉到拿不穩酒瓶，
也可能坐在地上眼神空洞地望著天，
或在地鐵車廂裡大喊：
「先生女士，拜託施捨我一點。」

我常停下腳步，看著他們，
想像他們曾經的故事。
或許也曾是穿著整潔的外套、
推著嬰兒車、買著法棍的上班族。
直到某一天，世界崩壞，
房子、工作、家人、信念，
一個接著一個垮了。

不同的人，上演不同的劇情，
唯一相同的是，他人看他們的目光。
一種我很熟悉，或許該說是太熟悉的眼神。

上高中前的九年，乞討，是我每天的生活。
我要的不是錢，是同學吃不完要丟掉的剩飯。
我把剩飯變成養雞的飼料，
再一點一滴地累積成餐桌上的食物。

即使如此，
我在他人眼裡仍是「乞丐」「不要臉的人」。
別人看我的眼神彷彿我是條噁心的老鼠，
應該要立刻原地消失。

那眼神中的厭惡是燒紅的烙鐵，
一天又一天地灼燒在臉上。
即使過了三十年，
那屈辱仍在我臉頰隱隱發燙。

我不想要尊嚴嗎？
當然想要，
即使當時的我只是個孩子。
我沒有羞恥心嗎？
怎會沒有？
但當一個人連飯都沒有，
連條狗都不如，
還談什麼尊嚴與羞恥？
臉被灼爛了又如何？
第二天依然要走進學校要飯，
因為那是幼小的我活下去的方式。

多年後，我在巴黎看見那些低頭伸手的人，
我看見了過去的自己。
一張六歲孩童的臉，
一個不敢抬頭的瘦弱身軀。
踩在自己破碎的尊嚴上，
一次次站起身來，
走進教室，
走進那個自尊被踐踏的地方，乞討。

驅動我的，是勇氣。
是我要活下去的不屈。
我們一次又一次回到被人羞辱的地方，
重複著被人看輕和不齒的事情。
那不是放棄尊嚴，
那是犧牲尊嚴去守住一點生的餘溫。

巴黎的光太美，
那些乞討的身影成為美麗下的哀愁，
文明光彩下的陰影。
地鐵裡那聲呼喊「我餓了」，
是無助的人用聲音去乞討一點點「被看見」。
不是希望人看見他們的失敗，
而是乞求世界看見他們想活下去的勇氣。

親愛的朋友，若你遇見了「巴黎的哀愁」，
也許你會撇開頭，
因為你不想直視他們的悲傷。
手伸向口袋，卻不知道該掏出什麼。
硬幣？同情？還是摀鼻的手帕？

但如果你願意停下來看看他們，
請給他們一個「我看見你的勇氣」，
再輕輕說一句：
Bonne journée。

很多人認為乞討的人懶惰無恥。
但真正走過那裡的人會知道，
要每天出現在同一個地方、
在眾人冷眼與厭惡中，
開口求生需要多大的勇氣。

那不是不要臉，
是不肯讓自己被世界抹去的抵抗。
尊嚴，沒有消失。
它被放在更深的地方，
放在『我要活下去』的決心裡。

勇氣，被白眼鄙視餵養，
在無情絕望中長出。

這篇文章獻給所有被世界輕視、
卻仍選擇活下去的人。

---

In Paris, you don’t have to look for sorrow.
It sits quietly beneath the eaves along the streets,
leans against the tunnel walls where subways meet,
or crouches beside the glass window of a boulangerie,
watching life move on without it.

It may be too drunk to hold its wine bottle steady,
or sit on the ground, eyes empty, staring at the sky.
Sometimes it boards the metro and cries out,
“Mesdames, Messieurs, ayez pitié.”

I often stop and watch them,
wondering what their stories once were.
Perhaps they too once wore clean coats,
pushed a stroller, bought a baguette on their way home—
until one day, the world collapsed:
the house, the job, the family,
and finally, the faith that held it all together.

Different people play out different stories,
yet the gaze they receive is always the same—
a look I know well,
perhaps too well.

For nine years before high school, 
begging was part of my daily life.
I wasn’t asking for money,
only for the leftovers my classmates were about to throw away.
I fed those scraps to our chickens,
turning what others had discarded
into food that slowly found its way back to our table.

Even so,
in the eyes of others I was still the beggar, 
the shameless girl.
Their looks stung—
as if I were a filthy rat that ought to disappear on the spot.

The disgust in those eyes was a branding iron,
pressing into my face day after day.
Even after thirty years,
the burn of that shame still warms my cheeks.

I didn’t want dignity?
Of course I did—even as a child.
I felt no shame?
How could I not?
But when a person has no food, 
less than even a stray dog,
what use are dignity and pride?

So what if my face was already burned raw?
The next day I still walked into the school to beg,
because that was how a small child stayed alive.

Years later in Paris,
when I see those who lower their heads 
and reach out their hands,
I see myself—the child I once was.
A six-year-old face,
a frail frame unable to lift its head,
stepping again and again on the shards of its own dignity,
standing up each time,
walking back into the classroom,
back into that place where pride was trampled,
to beg once more.

What kept me going was courage—
the quiet defiance of wanting to live.
We return, again and again,
to the places where we were shamed,
repeating the very acts that drew contempt.
It isn’t the loss of dignity;
it is the sacrifice of it,
to hold on to that last thin edge of life.

The light of Paris is too beautiful.
Beneath it, 
the figures who beg become the sorrow of the city,
the shadow cast by all its brilliance.
That cry in the metro—“J’ai faim”—
is a voice asking, not just for food,
but for the smallest chance of being seen.
They are not pleading for pity,
nor asking the world to witness their failure,
but begging it to see their courage to go on living.

My dear friend, 
if you ever come across the sorrow of Paris,
you might turn your head away because it hurts to look.
Your hand may reach into your pocket, 
unsure what to take out—
a coin, a little sympathy, or a handkerchief to cover the smell.

But if you choose to stop and truly look at them,
let your eyes say what words cannot—
I see your courage.
Then offer them, with a gentle,
“Bonne journée.”

---

Many might think those who beg are lazy and shameless.
But anyone who has ever been there knows —
to stand in the same place every day,
to face the crowd’s indifferent eyes,
and still find the strength to ask for life itself, 
takes more courage than most will ever understand.

It isn’t the absence of shame, 
but the refusal to be erased by the world. 
Dignity does not vanish; 
it retreats deeper, into the quiet resolve to live. 

Courage is fed by disdain 
and grows in the barren soil of despair. 

This piece is for all those the world has looked down upon,
who still choose, every day,
to go on living.