Since its first encounter. Western opinion has been largely negative on the practice of Fengshui. Ernest J. Eitel in 1873 characterises it as ‘the blind gropings of the Chinese mind’, which one has ‘to overthrow’ to modernise a state.’ (1) Similarly, Edwin Dukes characterises it as a contradictory, ‘overbearing tyrant’ which will eventually be worn down and replaced by western thought and technology. (2) Beyond calling it irrational, some western scholars even characterised it as actively malevolent, posing ‘real danger and persecution’ to the missionaries. (3) By the early 20th century however, western scholarship had shifted a little, to include a few more sympathetic voices to geomancy’s case, with writers such as L.C Porter and Joseph Needham seeking to ground it in philosophy and science respectively, rather than dismissing it immediately as superstitious nonsense. (4)

This more sympathetic tone can be seen in US Congressmen Victor Murdock’s 1920 book China the Mysterious and Marvellous, which was a travel account of China and its spiritual and cultural practices. He similarly grounds Fengshui as a collected knowledge gathered over ’40 decades, ‘the science of knowing what is an auspicious place’ and an ‘ancient and revered custom’. (5)  While he argues that the new Republic should work to de-prioritise Fengshui in favour of western progressive ideas, he argues patience towards the Chinese population as asking them to change this custom is akin to asking Westerners to change something fundamental like the days of the week. (6)

What distinguishes him from both Eitel and Dukes however, is that he doesn’t just see Fengshui as a spiritual practice used by the Chinese commoners, but a wider characteristic and emblem to describe China as a whole.  In his concluding remarks  about his experience travelling through the new Republic of China he notes that ‘The Feng-shui is right…it is here, the Chinese believe in it, and it is working for the Republic.’ (7) This statement is striking for two reasons, firstly it is contradictory to the Republic’s state on the moment writing and their attitude towards Fengshui. Secondly, it highlights the conflation of two conceptions of Fengshui in Western eyes, Fengshui as something to be cultivated, and Fengshui as an omnipresent entity.

In line with Murdock’s earlier remarks in his work – that Fengshui was a longstanding, ingrained custom that the Republic’s ‘spirit of progress’ was helping to loosen its grip – the ROC policy towards geomancy was suppression. (8) The new ruling class of modern educated urban elites saw breaking popular superstition as a necessary condition to transform China and to claim the identity of a modern nation. The establishment of foreign universities and the growing interest in science led to the rise of anti-religious sentiment in the 1920s, calling for the end of rituals of popular religion. (9) Within the decade of Murdock writing this, the government produced the ‘Procedure for the Abolition of the Occupations of  Divination, Astrology, Physiognomy and Palmistry, Magic and Geomancy (1929). In this period then, the Chinese Officials and Western commentators seems to be working in tandem to undermine Fengshui. Yet despite this, Murdock still chose to characterise the Republic’s success, and future, on the existence of Fengshui.

Beyond basing their success on something that the government was actively trying to   distance themselves from, the basis he provides to evidence that Fengshui was working  in their favour seems spurious. Given that by the 1920s the Communist party was getting more of a foothold in China, and a year prior to publishing the Republic had to contend with the May Fourth movement, luck and good Fengshui are interesting qualities to characterise the new regime. He claims that the war with Japan and the Boxer uprising were fortunate events, both the workings of Fengshui which helped secure the success of the Republic. Yuan Shikai’s attempt to restore monarchy was permanently thwarted when fengshui ‘operated’ , causing his death (10). In the narrative Murdock describes, Fengshui isn’t generated or cultivated by the events, but rather it implies it cultivates the events to the fortune of the Republic. Murdock, therefore, positions this force as a spirit or omnipresent entity rather than a practice.

 

Both Dukes and Eitel explain, mostly disbelievingly, that Fengshui is something that can be disrupted or altered by actions, that someone can cultivate good Fengshui for themselves, or bad Fengshui for others, through distinct actions or spatial arrangements. Even beyond western interpretation, wider scholarship seems to characterise Fengshui as a more individualistic, ego-centred practice, not something working for and against a large collective such as a state. (11) Presenting it in such a way then suggests Murdock wasn’t just reviewing or critiquing Fengshui but utilising it for a distinct purpose. Murdock was working under Woodrow Wilson, whose presidency had been characterised as deploying ‘missionary diplomacy’. (12) He saw spreading Christianity and democratic ideals as his role in China, and as such worked extensively in his terms to cultivate a good relationship with the nation. As mentioned above, the educated elites were responsive to this agenda, drawing on British and American models for governance,  and in turn utilised this relationship to put pressure on Wilson to acknowledge the new regime, and securing his support in relation to their demand to have the Shandong province returned to them. (13) Murdock’s representation of the Republic, endowed with good Fengshui and somehow destined to survive, is in line with both the Republic’s and United State’s interest. By characterising a regime that had been more responsive to Western ideas and technologies as inherently lucky and auspicious, Murdock was protecting American interests. Therefore, it could be argued, in the same way that Western observers like Dukes and Eitel argued that Chinese locals used Fengshui as a way to oppose foreign influence, that Murdock saw Fengshui as a tool, and popular selling point, to bolster support and confidence around the more Western-minded Republic of China.

 

(1)    Ernest John Eitel, Feng Shui or the Rudiments of Natural Science in China (1873), pp.49-50

(2) Edwin Joshua Dukes. Everyday Life in China: Or, Scenes Along River and Road in Fuh-Kien. Religious Tract Society, 1885. IA Ch VIII Feng-shui: The Biggest of All Bugbears pp145-159, p.159

(3)   James E. Mills, “Western responses to feng shui.” Middle states geographer 32 (1999): 71-77, p. 72

(4) Mills, ‘Western responses’, p.73

(5) Victor Murdock, China the mysterious and marvellous. (Fleming H. Revell Company, 1920), p.134, p.137

(6) Murdock, China the mysterious, p.138

(7) Murdock, China the mysterious, p.307

(8) Murdock, China the mysterious, p.138

(9) Ole Bruun. Fengshui in China: Geomantic divination between state orthodoxy and popular religion. (University of Hawaii Press, 2003), pp.72-78

(10)  Murdock, China the mysterious, p.307

(11)   Brunn, Fengshui in Chin, p.15

(12) Eugene P. Trani, “Woodrow Wilson, China, and the Missionaries, 1913—1921.” Journal of Presbyterian History (1962-1985) 49. 4 (1971), pp. 328-351,

(13)  Trani, “Woodrow Wilson”, , p.335, pp.347-351

 

In his article “Western Responses to Feng Shui”, James Mills argues that western representations of feng shui act as a mirror for western society, rather than informing us of authentic feng shui practice . Using this theory he claims that modern American conceptions of feng shui reveal the individualistic, commercialised, rootless nature of western society.¹ However, this article ultimately falls victim to essentialising Chinese belief systems due to disillusionment with American society. “Traditional” feng shui and the feng shui of the modern west in fact bear surprising similarities, By analysing modern western feng shui, as presented in the magazine “Feng Shui for Modern Living”, we can trace continuity where Mills finds dissonance.

Figure 1: The First Issue of “Feng Shui for Modern Living”

“Feng Shui for Modern Living” was first published in 1998, and, as seen in Figure 1, it claims to be the world’s first full colour magazine on feng shui. As noted by Mills, its pages are predominantly devoted to interior design and the benefits it can have for the individual, with articles such as “12 Mood Lighting Ideas” and “Arrange Your Desk For Success” featuring in the first issue. This, he argues, represents the self-centred nature of western culture. The communal concern for street alignment and settlement layout of traditional feng shui is lost.² However, feng shui has always been an individualistic pursuit for the common person. Whereas the elites of Chinese society tried to etch cosmic importance into the fabric of cities, common people were always concerned with their personal fortunes. Qi, the force which feng shui was designed to capture was seen as a finite resource, and as a result fostered competition between those who hoped to harness it.³ For example, in cases of parental burial, given each child’s unique cosmological relationship to a potential gravesite, siblings often struggled among themselves to select one which was most auspicious for themselves at the expense of others.⁴ Feng shui has thus always been an intensely and inherently individual endeavour.

Also missing from the pages of “Feng Shui for Modern Living” is any reference to the siting of tombs, which Mills argues is fundamental to “traditional” feng shui. Burial siting was undeniably an important part of early feng shui. However, Ole Brunn argues that over the course of Chinese history, divination of graves for the dead became less and less orthodox.⁵ By the 1880s, for the Chinese community in Singapore, burial siting was uncommon. Selecting an ideal burial site was, to a large extent, a privilege of the wealthy. Most had to make do with common graveyards run by Chinese associations, which did not totally disregard cosmological siting but were far less specifically tailored.⁶ Rather, grave siting took on greater meaning as a strategic discourse of resistance, used to combat British attempts to exert greater control over Chinese Singaporeans. To most of the Chinese community in colonial Singapore, burial feng shui was much more of an ideal used to justify the immunity of certain spaces from colonial interference than an essential practice. To suggest that the exclusion of burial geomancy from western feng shui is a unique omission disregards the plurality of feng shui conceptions over time.

Another of Mills’ critiques is that of over-commercialisation, with western practitioners harnessing the idea of feng shui to sell their services, magazines (such as “Feng Shui for Modern Living”), and correspondence courses.⁷ According to Mills, the market has been oversaturated and greedy. Yet, feng shui specialists were already omnipresent in Qing times.⁸ The feng shui market has always been large due to its necessity in nearly all aspects of Chinese life. These practitioners would have demanded fees for their services, and though their base salary may have been comparatively low, they were expected to be hosted lavishly with plenty of good food and drink during the period of their work, which could last for several days or more.⁹ In addition, Ole Brunn suggests that feng shui was used as a bargaining tool to extort money from foreigners attempting to build infrastructure into China during the 1840s and 50s.¹⁰ Overall, there is no reason to romanticise feng shui as an altruistic practice. From its origin, it has been a pragmatically deployed trade and tool.

That is not to say that modern western feng shui is the same as the ancient Chinese practice or that it tells us nothing of our current times. It is, indeed, a unique conception of feng shui born from its context. However, the same is true of feng shui in every time and place, as it is truly an umbrella term which encompasses a diversity of practices and beliefs. We should therefore be cautious of any fixed conception of feng shui at all. Attempting to contrast modern applications of feng shui with a “traditional” alternative is a baseless task, which ultimately leads to the essentialisation of eastern belief systems.

1. James Mills, ‘Western Responses to Feng Shui’, Middle States Geographer 32:1 (1999), p. 75. [↩]
2. Ibid, p. 74. [↩]
3. Ole Brunn, An Introduction to Feng Shui (Cambridge, 2008), p. 63. [↩]
4. Richard Smith, Fortune-tellers and Philosophers (New York, 1992), p. 164. [↩]
5. Ole Brunn, An Introduction to Feng Shui (Cambridge, 2008), p. 11. [↩]
6. Brenda Yeoh, Contesting Space in Colonial Singapore (Singapore, 2003), p. 297. [↩]
7. James Mills, ‘Western Responses to Feng Shui’, Middle States Geographer 32:1 (1999), p. 74. [↩]
8. Richard Smith, Fortune-tellers and Philosophers (New York, 1992), p. 132. [↩]
9. Ibid, p. 155. [↩]
10. Ole Brunn, An Introduction to Feng Shui (Cambridge, 2008), p. 40. [↩]

,The Yu Lan Jie (盂蘭節), or the Hungry Ghost festival provides an interesting lens to view the soujourner communities and native place associations in major Asian cities through. This can be seen in the symbolic respect of the soujourner ghost, or the community building aspect of these festivities but also the contested space itself where these festivals and rituals take place – where foreign influence and urbanisation threatened the communities’ access and claims to the land and the Yu Lan Jie celebrations.

 Playing a role in Taoism, Chinese folk religion, and Chinese Buddhism, this important festival has muiltiple reported origins, but can be traced back to an ancient Indian buddhist scripture known as Yulanpen Sutra, from which the name of the festival derives. The Sutra relays the story of Maudgalyayana, who goes on a journey to visit his deceased parents, only to find his mother in the realm of Preta, the hungry ghost. After his mother refuses his rice, Maudgalyayana is informed by Buddha that the only way he can feed and save her is by providing offerings at his monastic community during Pravarana, roughly corresponding to the 15th day of the 7th month (1). Drawing on this, the Chinese celebration falls on the 7th lunar month, considered the ghost month, where on the 15th day of that month the gates to hell and heaven open and the ghosts are believed to pass into the human realm. Rituals and offerings are given to satisfy these ghosts in both burial grounds and the house, with the intended purpose of ensuring prosperity and ward off bad luck. I bring up the origins of this festival to trace what the early depictions of this festival seem to align with, the family. In these images, celebrations seem to be more intimate and more household based rather than celebrated by guilds or communities.

                       

 

This more personal setting however, applies only to one side of the festival: household celebrations were specific to ancestral ghosts, however, separate celebrations existed in the heart of the community – often in regional temples and burial grounds or marketplaces – for the ghosts with no descendants or who have been forgotten (2). Indeed, the potent image of the ‘hungry ghost’, almost animalistic in their distress, seem to align more with these forgotten, emotionally charged ghosts than the ancestral spirits. Therefore, when cities like Shanghai starting rapidly urbanising in the 19th century, the native place associations which sprang up found this festival an important event to show their regional solidarity. The ‘sojourning ghost’, as Goodman aptly puts it, and its plight as a foreign entity in the living realm, struck a cord with the lonely sojourners in the city without families (3). Indeed, a stone inscription on a Ningbo artisan association building in Shanghai seems to make this exact parallel when it says: “Living, we are guests from other parts; dead, we are ghosts from foreign territory.” (4)

The communal festivities include rituals performed by Taoist priests or Buddhist monks, – who were sometimes transported from their native regions- bonfires burning spirit money and clothes to transfer to the pauper ghosts, stage performances, costumed processions and a large collective banquet for members of the native place associations (5). These activities led to a large amount of flexibility in cultural expression, lavishness and scale, allowing a fluid framework for members to exert their regional identities through far from home. It allowed expression from across the social strata of the native place association, not just the Huiguan leaders (6). For the more )wealthy and prominent regional communities, like Guangdong and Ningbo, these processions and religious ceremonies were the perfect opportunity to exert their legitimacy and prestige as a collective.  The festivities also prompted social welfare provisions amongst the association, with cakes made for the celebration being distributed to the poorest in the group (7).  welfare did act as a point of critique of these celebrations, particularly when funds for disaster and conflict relief were being sought from those affected in their transnational communities. As a one writers chides  “The yulanpenhui is to relieve the homeless ghosts. But they are already dead. . . . Why not help the living?” (8). With the hungry ghost celebrations and public charity both important for the construction of status for the Huiguan elites and the community’s identity such a critique almost challenges an ordered hierarchy of the prestige making activities of native place associations. While public charity and mutual aid objectively seems the more worthy cause for the whole regional group, somewhat ironically it exists as the less accessible option for the lower strata to participate in than Yu Lan Jie which remained popular well into the 20th century.

The final thought I wanted to discuss about the significance of the festival was what it reflected about the ongoing struggle soujourner communities faced in regards to the burial grounds and guild halls where they would perform some of these rituals, and the very real dead they were temporarily storing before transporting them to their native regions. Rapid urbanisation of cities didn’t just lead to the rise of migrant soujourner communities in cities, but also led to the problem of relocating graveyards upon the desire to expand the boundaries of the city. In Shanghai, this problem was often characterised as a conflict between the Chinese communities and the Western powers. This could be seen generally through the western discourse of public health and plague prevention, objecting to the sojourner guilds coffin repositories in the urban areas (9). More specifically though, it is possibly most famously seen through the two conflicts between French authorities and the Ningbo people regarding the location of Siming Gongsuo and coffin repository in 1874 and 1898. While an article in the agreement between China and the international settlement specifically forbade the western powers from removing the dead from their lands without explicit permission, because said article also stated that the no new Chinese coffins should be placed within their limits, many public cemeteries quickly decided it was in their interest to agree and relocate (10). Guild graveyards proved to be more stubborn, particularly the Siming Gongsuo. Given all the discussion above, it can be understood why these locations would be more precious to the soujourner community, away from their home and family. The rise in popularity of the commercial urban graveyards in Shanghai are possibly evidence that people were feeling the distance between the city and the newly relocated, isolated graveyards. While the Ningbo riots can be characterised as examples of early popular nationalism, it’s important to contextualise these events in the broader trend of urban displacement. Thomas S. Mullaney interactive digital volume The Chinese Deathscape Grave Reform in Modern China virtually maps this phenomenon and notes that this is just as much a contemporary issue as it is historic (11). While the festivals may have spiritually marked the migration of the dead in the living realm, burial re-locations make the dead physically migrants in, what Mullaney terms, the landscape of death. This not only makes the metaphor between sojourner and ghost complete, but also indicates why such a festival has been historically so important to migrant communities, as it is not only culturally enriching but such cultural enrichment is under a continuous mounted threat from urbanisation.

 

(1)   Jean DeBernardi,. “The hungry ghosts festival: a convergence of religion and politics in the chinese community of Penang, Malaysia.” Asian Journal of Social Science 12, no. 2 (1984), pp.25-34, p.26

(2)  Debarnardi, “The hungry ghosts”, pp.27-29

(3)  Bryna Goodman, Native, Place, City, and Nation: regional networks and identities in Shanghai, 1853-1937, (University of California Press, 2023.), p.96

(4)  Cited in Goodman, Native, Place, City, p.96

(5)  Debarnardi, ‘The hungry ghosts’, p.27-29,

(6)  Goodman, Native, Place, City, p.100

(7)  Debarnardi, ‘The hungry ghosts’, p.28

(8)  Goodman, Native, Place, City, p.99

(9)  Ibid.p.163

(10) Christian Henriot, ‘When the Dead Go Marching in’, in Mullaney, Thomas Shawn, Christian Henriot, Jeffrey Snyder-Reinke, David William McClure, and Glen Worthey. The Chinese deathscape: Grave reform in modern china. Stanford University Press, 2019.

(11) Henriot, ‘When the Dead’.

 

 

A “contact zone” refers to a space where historically and geographically separated people engage with each other and establish new relationships and identities.¹ In the Dutch colonial city of Batavia, a “contact zone” of particular note was the Hotel der Nederlanden, one of the most prominent hotels in the city and often the first port of call for any visiting European. By analysing the representation of the Hotel der Nederlanden in Anna Forbes’ 1887 “Insulinde: Experiences of a Naturalist’s Wife in the Eastern Archipelago “, we can learn about Dutch colonial culture and how its unique hybridity supported discourses of colonial modernisation. By conspicuously adopting certain features of native culture, and placing them in service of western comfort and convenience, colonial Batavian society could claim to be elevating and improving native society.

Co-option of some native ways of life within the Hotel der Nederlanden is apparent in Forbes’ description of guest attire. She is shocked to learn that Dutch ladies wore the native sarong for nearly all of the day besides dinner, rather than a “respectable skirt”.² Despite her initial reaction, she eventually sees rationality behind these clothes which are “natural in the climate”, even saying the sarong is “really becoming” once you become accustomed to it.³ Given their ready adoption of native dress by the residents of the Hotel der Nederlanden, Batavian society did not seem to outwardly harbour anxieties about “going native”. However, the sarongs worn by European ladies are seen by Forbes to be separate and improved from their native versions, being elevated by costly materials, dainty “lace or embroidery”, or a European dressing jacket.⁴ Thus, aspects of native culture were appropriated by Europeans who were seen to bring greater aesthetic sophistication to them, impressing the merit of Dutch colonial society upon visitors.

Beyond merely providing a backdrop for this phenomenon, the hotel perpetuated it through its dining experience. Forbes states that, after a fairly standard breakfast of eggs, coffee, and sausages, lunch at the Hotel der Nederlanden presented a fusion of Indonesian and western cuisines. The process of this meal, called the “rijsttafel” or “rice table” by the Dutch, involved guests helping themselves to rice served on an immense platter, spooning curry over it, adding various meats, fritters, vegetables, and condiments (pickles, chutneys, chili), and then mixing it all together.⁵ Not only did the “rice table” confront the uninitiated with new foods, it was also an unfamiliar ritual. Forbes notes how a family unused to the custom nearly missed out on all the food before her husband intervened.⁶ What is most clearly demonstrated here is the clear intention of the Hotel der Nederlanden to not imitate the colonial metropole. Rather than relying solely on familiar European dishes and practices, the hotel encouraged visitors to engage heavily with “native” cuisine. Yet, given a Dutch name, prepared by European chefs,⁷  and served alongside “beefsteaks and fried potatoes”,⁵ the “rijsttafel” was separated from whatever native roots it might have had. Like the sarongs of the ladies at the Hotel der Nederlanden, it was only a superficial adoption of Indonesian customs, redesigned for European consumption.

Thus, despite these visible areas of cultural hybridity, the Hotel der Nederlanden was still firmly entrenched in colonial hierarchies. One clear example of this is presented in Forbes’ description of the staff, as she notes the amount of male servants, waiters, and valets rushing about the hotel.⁸ All are said to be referred to as “boy”. Indeed, contemporary travel guides would often include sections on useful vocabulary for hotel life, which are predominantly addressed to the native “boy”.⁹ This imperious language made clear the implied hierarchy between Europeans and the Javanese. As such, though Javanese concepts, aesthetics, and culture are incorporated into the experience of the hotel, colonial prejudices were still present. Adoption of native attire or cuisine merely served to conceal this, suggesting instead that the Dutch were actively improving upon and modernising Indonesian society.

By analysing the Hotel der Nederlanden as a “contact zone”, we can learn about how Dutch colonial society constructed their identities as modernisers and cultural stewards. The aspects of culture chosen for appropriation and the methods by which they were adapted show that interest in truly accepting native culture was superficial. However, for Anna Forbes and visitors like her, the Hotel der Nederlanden and the wider Dutch East Indies came to embody the proof of the European capacity to advance native cultures.¹⁰ Thus, the Hotel der Nederlanden can be seen as a site where cultural contact was leveraged to highlight the beneficial effects Dutch rule had on Indonesian culture.

1. Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturization (London, 1992), p. 4. [↩]
2. Anna Forbes, Insulinde: Experiences of a Naturalist’s Wife in the Eastern Archipelago (London, 1887), p. 8. [↩]
3. Ibid. [↩]
4. Anna Forbes, Insulinde: Experiences of a Naturalist’s Wife in the Eastern Archipelago (London, 1887), pp. 8-9. [↩]
5. Ibid, p. 11. [↩] [↩]
6. Ibid, p. 12. [↩]
7. Scott Merrillees, Greetings from Jakarta (Toledo, 2012), p. 80. [↩]
8. Ibid, p. 7. [↩]
9. For example: The Official Tourist Bureau, Java, The Wonderland (Batavia, 1900), pp. 4-6. [↩]
10. Susan Morgan, Place Matters: Gendered Geography in Victorian Women’s Travel Books About Southeast Asia (New Jersey, 1996), p. 71. [↩]

¹

Shanghai has been a cosmopolitan city for a very long period. After the First Opium War, the British forces exerted influence over the city’s operations,² and the signning of the Treaty of Nanking elevated Shanghai to a significant treaty port in China.³ Throughout the Republican era, Shanghai boasted numerous international settlements, attracting a sizable foreign population engaged in trade, migration, or seeking refuge.⁴ This dynamic transformed Shanghai into a city where diverse cultures, powers, and foreign identities intermingled. Among the various forces and identities present, the police forces emerged as particularly complex institutions, highlighting the intricacies of Shanghai’s societal landscape. In this week’s assigned reading, Frederic Wakeman Jr. posits that this complexity underscores Shanghai’s ties to the imperial network,⁵ as all four police agencies operating in the city during that time were linked to imperialism or colonialism:

• The International Settlement’s Shanghai Municipal Police
• Frenchtown’s Concession Police
• The Nationalist Garrison Command’s Military Police
• The Chinese Special Municipality’s Public Safety Bureau

Nevertheless, this blog, in another way intends to discuss the diverse police forces in Shanghai in 1945, based on the texts from one of the volumes of Jingcha Yuekan 警察月刊 published in 1945 in Shanghai, to contend that Shanghai, at least in the aspect of police forces, represented a little globe. Specifically, it was a city showcasing the international coexistence of various countries, rather than solely being a treaty port city within the imperial network.

In one of the volumes of Jingcha Yuekan 警察月刊 published in 1945, a text titled Waiji Baojia 外籍保甲 provides a concise overview of the foreign police forces in Shanghai during that year. According to the text, in 1945, there were 26,715 foreign households in Shanghai, including nationalities such as Poland, Spain, Germany, Greece, and White Russia, among others.⁶ This detailed enumeration highlights the Chinese police’s awareness of the growing presence of foreigners, necessitating specific record-keeping. Furthermore, the text includes information on marriages and departures of foreigners. In February 1945, for instance, one German and one Spanish individual left Shanghai, while ten others became residents due to marriage.⁶ Additionally, two individuals underwent divorce proceedings.⁷ These reports indicate that the Chinese Shanghai police force was not only focused on local criminal matters but also actively monitored the living situations of foreigners. Managing the experiences of foreign residents was evidently within the purview of the Chinese Shanghai police forces, reflecting an international exchange of information. At this juncture, the foreign residents were not a manifestation of imperialism but rather constituents of Shanghai as a miniature globe.

However, despite the Chinese police force noticing and recording the presence of foreign groups in Shanghai, it does not imply a managing-and-being-managed relationship between these foreigners and the Chinese police force. Instead, I argue that the primary text reveals Shanghai’s dynamic situation, which rendered it a little globe. While the Chinese police force documented the details of foreign residents, they were not involved in their management. According to the text, foreigners had their own established Baojia Dui 保甲队, responsible for securing of specific groups and conducting defence drills within their settlements. For instance, the text highlights that Jewish people had 45 Baojia 保甲, collectively serving as a police force for 16,713 hours in February.⁷ Moreover, in the same month, the Jewish police force conducted six air defence drills involving 511 individuals.⁷ Similarly, White Russians had three Baojia 保甲, serving for 1,032 hours in February.⁷ Evidently, foreign groups operated under their own orders and regulations regarding policing. At this juncture, the Chinese police force merely acted as record-keepers rather than active participants or managers. Although foreigners were residents of Shanghai under the supervision of the Chinese police force, these foreign groups operated independently of the Chinese police force system. Within Shanghai’s city space, these groups functioned as autonomous institutions. This arrangement contributed to the creation of a little globe in Shanghai that lacked a centralised management.

Frederic Wakeman Jr. argues that Shanghai’s complicated police systems during the time highlighted its role in the imperial network. However, my contention in this blog is that Chinese and foreigners in Shanghai occupied independent statuses individually. Spatially, Shanghai resembled a collection of many small states and nations, with the Chinese lacking dominant status. This situation resulted in Shanghai being characterised as a miniature globe during this era.

1. “Waiji Baojiao” 外籍保甲, Jingcha Yuekan 警察月刊 1.2 (1945): 20. [↩]
2. Robert S. Rait, The Life and Campaigns of Hugh First Viscount Gough, Field-Marshal (London, 1903), p. 268. [↩]
3. ‘The Opium War (or How Hong Kong Began)’, South China Morning Post, 24 July, 2011, <https://www.scmp.com/article/974360/opium-war-or-how-hong-kong-began> [accessed 11 March 2024] [↩]
4. Frederic Wakeman, ‘Policing Modern Shanghai’, The China Quarterly 115 (September 1988): p. 427, <https://doi.org/10.1017/s0305741000027508> [accessed 11 March 2024] [↩]
5. Wakeman, ‘Policing Modern Shanghai’, p. 412.] [↩]
6. “Waiji Baojiao” 外籍保甲, p. 20. [↩] [↩]
7. Ibid. [↩] [↩] [↩] [↩]

People played out their lives in the lanes… but it was the first hour after dawn that disturbed us… the residents… placed their honey pots in a neat row outside their house… soon… the unbelievably strange, guttural, grunting-groaning sound [of] … the two-wheel pushcart [came] for the collection of human faeces… As soon as he departed… women charged on the scene… soon came the rhythmic noise from swishing the bundle of sticks around inside the family toilet.¹

This passage, from Ursula Bacon’s memoir From Hitler’s Hate to War-Torn China, describes a daily ritual that unfolded in the labyrinthine lanes of Shanghai. Residents meticulously arranged ‘honey pots’ (or otherwise known as wooden night stools, or family toilets) in rows outside their houses, heralding the arrival of the ‘two-wheel pushcart’ (or alternatively known as night stool cart) which was accompanied by strange guttural sounds – a peculiar yet particular urban orchestra responsible for collecting human waste.

As a Jewish refugee fleeing Nazi Germany, Bacon’s memoir helps to overcome the paucity of knowledge of the Jewish experience in Shanghai during the years 1939 to 1947. Throughout, Bacons depicts that upon disembarking from their ships, the refugees were met, not by the idyllic portrayal of China found in storybooks but rather with the stark reality of unfamiliar smells, sounds, crowds, heat and humidity. Bacon was overwhelmed by the nature of her new environment and at multiple points throughout her memoir she voices expression of disturbance at the city’s informal structures of practices – often dismissed as underdeveloped or messy. Indeed, Bacon’s memoir becomes a distinct articulation of the lives of the Chinese population living in Shanghai, which she saw as a ‘messy’ urban fabric.²

Jeffrey Hou and Manish Chalana in their chapter ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ introduce the concept of ‘messy urbanism.’ This term encapsulates conditions and processes that diverge from institutionalised or culturally prescribed notions of order.³ Their chapter highlights the importance of looking at the often hidden, disguised, under appreciated, or dismissed compositions (such as disposal of waste) to help uncover the nuances of urban life. The author suggest that the layers of actors and actions revealed by the concept of ‘messy urbanism’ allow us to view urban life from a diverse, rather than hierarchical perspective. In this context, the seeming disorder of messiness conceals multiple layers of order and meaning that are readily decipherable to the communities that create and use them.⁴

In navigating her dual roles as both a foreigner and a refugee, Ursula Bacon also embraces the identity of a newcomer to Shanghai. This multifaceted positioning adds layers of complexity to her perspective, allowing her to engage with the urban landscape as someone simultaneously discovering and adapting to new surroundings. This nuanced perspective becomes a constant negotiation in her text, as she strives to portray the urban conditions without imposing the gaze of a foreigner who might misunderstand the complexity of the city. Bacon’s unique positioning contributes significant value to the representation of ‘messy urbanism,’ capturing the intricate dynamics of her experience in the lanes of Shanghai. Her words link the city’s ‘messiness’ to issues of poverty and a departed from the old hierarchical vision of Shanghai in the 1930s. Shanghai had established itself as the Paris of the East, yet Bacon’s initial impression reflects a nuanced perspective: ‘well, this is Shanghai, after all. It’s not Paris, London, Rome or Home.’⁵ Her use of a nostalgic tone serves to illuminate the everyday practices she encounters while traversing Shanghai to shed light on the broader patterns of urban order, characterising the messy urban fabric of Shanghai in the 1930s.

The work of Hanchao Lu’s Beyond the Neon Lights: Everyday Shanghai in the Early Twentieth Century, helps to neatly outline this sentiment. Lu’s work is one of the most original contributions to our understanding of Shanghai and is a valued source. Lu does well to detail to the indispensable role of the ‘nightsoil’ collectors who ‘repeat these actions hundreds of times every morning.’⁶ Lu’s articulation, in conversation with Bacon’s memoir, reminds the readership that within the perceived disorder there lies hidden layers or order and meaning. Whilst to a foreigner it may be seen as a disturbing routine, it was a ‘daily necessity.’⁷

Contemplating on John de Monacahuc’s assertion that ‘cities are messy places, and on the whole, they word well because of the messiness’ encourages a nuanced perspective when engaging with these sources. ⁸ To truly appreciate the underlying order, one must delve into the divers patterns, recognising that, although they may seem intricate, they are the very elements that contribute to the effective functioning of the city.

In essence, this exploration of messy urbanism in Shanghai highlights an unconventional order, resilience and the vibrant pulse of everyday life. Beneath the ‘messy,’ there exists a clear order – a dynamic interplay of practices and structures that shape the city’s identity. The seemingly disorder elements contribute to a rich urban fabric that reflect the adaptive ingenuity of Shanghai’s diverse communities

1.  Ursula Bacon, Shanghai Diary: A Young Girl’s Journey from Hitler’s Hate to War-Torn China, (2004) [↩]
2. Bacon, Shanghai Diary.  [↩]
3. Jeffrey Hou and Manish Chalana, ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ in Manish Chalana (ed.) Messy Urbanism: Understanding the “Other” Cities of Asia, (2016), p. 4. [↩]
4. Hou and Chalana, ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ p. 4.  [↩]
5. Bacon, Shanghai Diary.   [↩]
6. Hanchao Lu’s Beyond the Neon Lights: Everyday Shanghai in the Early Twentieth Century, (2023), p. 189. [↩]
7.   Lu’s Beyond the Neon Lights, p. 190 [↩]
8. Hou and Chalana, ‘Untangling the “Messy” Asian City,’ p. 5 [↩]