在中國深圳龍華區的景樂新村，有一群年輕人過著與主流社會格格不入的生活。他們靠著三和人才市場的日結工維生，被稱為「三和大神」。這個稱號並非來自他們的尊貴或能力，而是一種帶有自嘲意味的標籤，象徵著他們對現實無力反抗後的自我放逐。他們睡在每晚只需十五元人民幣的網吧，吃著五元的「掛逼面」，過著「做一天，玩三天」的生活節奏。他們的故事被日本NHK在2018年製作成紀錄片，引起廣泛關注與討論。

NHK的紀錄片《三和人才市場：中國日結1500日元的年輕人們》以冷靜卻深入的視角，呈現這群三和大神的日常。影片中沒有過度煽情的剪輯，而是透過幾位「大神」的真實生活，揭示他們為何選擇打零工、睡網吧、不願進入工廠。像是曾經在工廠工作的宋春江，因受不了壓抑的流水線生活而選擇離開，成為三和的「傳奇人物」；還有「小黑」，因身份證被黑中介騙走，無法找到正式工作，只能靠零工與街頭求生；以及「掛逼老哥」，因賭博或債務走投無路，只能靠最廉價的食物維生。這些人的選擇，背後並不是單純的懶惰，而是對壓榨與剝削制度的絕望回應。

為什麼這些人寧願過不穩定的日結工生活，也不願進入工廠？原因在於工廠制度對個體的高度壓迫。許多工廠執行十二小時兩班倒的制度，管理嚴苛，連上廁所都需報備，精神壓力極大。而日結工雖然辛苦，但至少自由，不受控制，工作結束後可以隨時「提桶跑路」。再加上工廠實際薪資並不比零工高多少，許多三和青年在扣除住宿、伙食與罰款後，發現月薪與日結收入差距不大。更重要的是，他們曾經受過黑中介與工廠的欺騙，被扣薪或遭拖欠工資，因此寧願選擇「看得見錢」的零工，而不願再冒風險。

在這樣的背景下，「躺平」並非純粹的消極，而是一種消極抵抗。他們明知努力工作也無法在深圳買房、無法真正扎根於這座城市，與其辛苦一生換來的仍是邊緣處境，不如選擇最基本的生存方式，至少可以自由一點、輕鬆一些。他們發展出一套屬於自己的「生存哲學」：吃掛逼面、喝2元大瓶水、睡網吧地板。提桶跑路成了行動象徵，而「大神」的稱呼則成為一種自我認同——他們不再追求上進，只想以最低成本維持生命運轉。

主流社會對三和大神多持批判態度，認為他們懶惰、自甘墮落，但卻很少人去問：為什麼一個人寧願露宿街頭，也不願進工廠？事實上，這些年輕人的選擇反映出中國製造業轉型期的陣痛，也突顯出當代青年在城市化、資本壓迫下的生存困境。流水線的工作不再提供穩定生活的希望，反而成為壓垮人的牢籠。在這樣的結構性剝奪下，三和大神的存在，就像是一面鏡子，照出社會體系的裂縫。

隨著外送、快遞等靈活就業模式興起，越來越多年輕人選擇日結工、不再進工廠，三和現象不再是孤例，而是某種時代趨勢的縮影。雖然這樣的生活方式不穩定、無保障，但對許多人來說，卻比被剝削的勞動更可接受。

紀錄片最後，有人選擇離開三和，嘗試重新出發，也有人繼續沉淪，但他們的故事給我們帶來深刻的反思：當社會不再能兌現「努力就能改變命運」的承諾時，有人選擇逆流而上，有人則選擇放棄掙扎，任自己沉浮。三和大神不是簡單的失敗者，他們的存在迫使我們重新審視社會制度、人性尊嚴與勞動的真正價值——是這個社會拋棄了他們，還是他們選擇放棄這個社會？這個問題，值得每一個人深思。

In Jinglue Village, Longhua District of Shenzhen, China, a group of young people live lives that stand in stark contrast to mainstream society. They survive through day labor jobs found at the nearby Sanhe Talent Market and are colloquially known as the “Sanhe Gods” (“Sanhe Dashen”). This ironic nickname is not a mark of prestige or capability, but rather a form of self-deprecating humor—a label that symbolizes their quiet surrender to a society they feel powerless to fight. These individuals sleep in internet cafés that cost just 15 yuan per night, eat 5-yuan “gua bi noodles” (plain broth noodles), and live by the rhythm of “work one day, play for three.” Their unusual lives caught the attention of Japan’s NHK, which produced a documentary in 2018 that sparked widespread discussion and reflection.

The NHK documentary, The Sanhe Talent Market: China’s Day Laborers Earning 1,500 Yen a Day, presents a calm yet penetrating look at the everyday existence of these marginalized youths. Rather than using overly sentimental narratives, the film follows several “gods” in real life to uncover why they choose day labor, sleeping in internet cafés, and refuse to work in factories. For example, Song Chunjiang, once a factory worker, fled from the oppressive conditions of assembly line labor and became a legendary figure in Sanhe. “Xiao Hei” had his ID card stolen by a shady job agency and, unable to find formal employment, now survives on street labor. Another man, nicknamed “Gua Bi Brother,” fell into poverty due to gambling or debt and relies on the cheapest food available. These men aren’t inherently lazy—their lifestyle is a form of desperate reaction to a system of exploitation.

Why would anyone choose unstable day labor over steady factory work? The answer lies in the suffocating reality of factory life. Many factories operate on grueling 12-hour shifts, with tightly controlled environments where even using the bathroom requires permission. The mental strain is overwhelming. In contrast, day labor may be exhausting, but it allows freedom—workers get paid at the end of the day and can “walk away with their bucket” (a local phrase for quitting on the spot). After accounting for deductions like food, dorms, and fines, many find that factory wages are not significantly better than day wages. More importantly, many Sanhe youths have been cheated—losing wages or being exploited—by factories and middlemen. Thus, they prefer jobs where cash is visible and immediate.

In this context, “lying flat” (躺平)—a term associated with giving up ambition—is not mere passivity. It is a silent rebellion. These young people know that no matter how hard they work, they’ll never afford a home in Shenzhen or establish permanent roots. Rather than toil endlessly for a life that will never be theirs, they opt for a bare-minimum existence—eating cheap noodles, drinking 2-yuan water, sleeping on net café floors. “Carrying the bucket and fleeing” becomes their philosophy of mobility, and the title “Dashen” becomes a symbol of resigned identity. They no longer strive upward, but instead focus on surviving at the lowest cost.

Mainstream society tends to criticize the Sanhe Gods, labeling them as lazy or degenerate. Yet few stop to ask: what drives someone to choose the streets over a factory job? In truth, these young people’s decisions expose the growing pains of China’s manufacturing transition and the survival challenges faced by youth in an increasingly capitalist, urbanized society. Assembly-line jobs no longer promise a stable life—they have become cages. Under such systemic deprivation, the Sanhe Gods serve as a mirror reflecting the deep cracks in the social structure.

With the rise of flexible employment—like food delivery and courier services—more and more young people are choosing day labor over traditional factory jobs. The Sanhe phenomenon is no longer an anomaly but a symptom of broader economic shifts. Although unstable and insecure, this lifestyle is, for many, more tolerable than exploitative labor.

By the documentary’s end, some individuals attempt to leave Sanhe and rebuild their lives, while others remain trapped in their patterns. Regardless, their stories leave us with a profound question: when the promise that “hard work will change your fate” becomes hollow, some choose to fight the current, while others surrender to it. The Sanhe Gods are not simple failures. Their existence forces us to reevaluate the meaning of labor, human dignity, and social responsibility. In the end, one must ask: did they abandon society, or did society abandon them? This is a question we must all consider.