The evening of January 23, 1996 could have been any other night at Tokyo's most controversial address: Corridor Four, West Exit, Shinjuku Station. In the cold glow of the fluorescent lights, some 200 homeless people bunked down, swathing themselves in blankets and newspapers, shielding themselves from the chill with huge cardboard boxes. It could have been any evening--but it was not. Rumors that riot police would soon raid the tunnel had rattled every nerve in the place. "I'm scared," blurted a toothless man in his 50s. "I'm too old for this."

Recent clashes between the derelicts and the authorities had upped tensions to breaking point. Only 10 days earlier, Tokyo governor Yukio Aoshima triggered a near-riot when he delivered an ultimatum: get out of Corridor Four by month's end--or else. But with the vociferous support of small activist groups, the homeless of Shinjuku had emerged as surprisingly tenacious opponents.

For four years, Corridor Four had doubled as a pedestrian underpass and a shelter. Every day the tunnel gushed with hundreds of thousands of commuters traversing the broad, shrub-lined 250-meter stretch, barely aware of the cardboard shanty town that festered on one side, beyond the potted plants. The commuters were headed for the mammoth twin towers of the glittering City Hall and Tokyo's most prestigious hotels; in the evenings they would disappear into the crush of the world's busiest railway station.

At the heart of the conflict was the construction of a Y1.3 billion moving walkway: the putative reason the Metropolitan Government gave for why the homeless had to go. But while negotiations with Sumitomo Heavy Industries--for the project's construction--and the National Lottery Commission--for the financing--had long been underway, the mandarins of City Hall had refused to even discuss the matter with the passageway's disenfranchised "residents." It was not difficult to understand that to many of them--given their past treatment at the hands of the Tokyo administration--the walkway was a mere pretext to get them out. Up until February 1994, police had been periodically raiding Corrodor Four, hauling away the cardboard structures, confiscating their contents and hosing the area down. Then in February last year, the government fenced off the passageway in order to install a row of potted plants. It was the first concerted effort to expel the homeless permanently, but they kept coming back. By January 23, the apprehension in the air said it clearly: the stage was set for violent confrontation.

Ironically, the homeless were some of Governor Aoshima's most vocal supporters after his election last April, regularly crowding into assembly sessions to cheer him from the gallery. The adulation ended after a press conference confirming the moving walkway project in October 1994. "The homeless should realize the nuisance they cause to passersby," Aoshima had stated. "The homeless have a different philosophy of life."

It was an announcement that the homeless regarded as utter betrayal. Their reply to Aoshima's proclamation was a banner on the side of a barricade facing City Hall, which read: "City of Tokyo! You Refuse to Speak With Us. We Refuse to Submit to Force." A poster of the governor, dressed in full combat gear with a swastika banner in the background, appeared in the passageway.

"Most people will tell you we're here because of a few bad breaks . . ." said Ken Kanenari, a Corridor Four resident and former electronics company employee, during the build up to the police action. "Maybe that's true, but it's not the real reason. I think you can say this generally about us all: we gave up fighting too soon."

Over the years, some of the cardboard dwellings had grown relatively elaborate. On the outside of many was the eye-catching work of young artists--caricatures of bedraggled salarymen with spooks spiraling from their brains; clowns, imaginary creatures and angry slogans. Kanenari's abode, in particular, became a regular drop-in center for others in need of advice or food. It was sparsely yet comfortably furnished: a laminated coffee table, cushioned easy-chairs, a bookcase and a patterned rug. On the far wall hung an oil painting, a tourist poster of an Alpine scene and the man's own photographs of children in kimono. It was like the corner of a suburban snack bar--except that the walls were made of cardboard.

By the middle of January, the box homes of around 100 "permanent" residents were lining the passageway. On any given night, however, that figure doubled with the arrival of at least the same number of travelers. If the homeless bedding down in the approaches to the Marunouchi and Keio lines were included in the count, Shinjuku Station's population was around 600.

Many of the derelicts survived with part time jobs in ramen shops, selling magazines, laboring or taking on piece-work contracts at factories. Others got by as sandwich-board men, selling used telephone cards (Y10 each) or scavenging. "The station is a network of community pockets," said a member of the Shinjuku Renrakkai, the group that helps the homeless find work, provides food, rudimentary medical care and safety patrols. "They survive because of the cooperation and trust that has built up over time."

The government claimed that its main objective in constructing the walkway was to smooth access to City Hall for the elderly and handicapped. But the walkway will cover only some 250 meters of the 800 meter distance between the station and the government buildings. Some welfare groups for the handicapped became irritated by what they saw as a transparent ploy to appropriate the cause of the handicapped for a different political agenda.

"The walkway will be of no use to the handicapped," said Koyata Kondo, an official at the Shinjuku Ward Assistance Center for the Disabled. "If the government wants to spend Y1.3 billion to help us, they should build ramps or escalators beside the stairs in the station. Why do we need a moving walkway on a flat surface? We have wheelchairs."

One unfortunate outcome of the publicity generated by the issue was that construction companies and their pimps began preying on the derelicts as a source of slave labor. Activists staged a fierce but little reported and ineffectual protest against the most glaring case of exploitation. According to group leaders, one construction company recruited some 100 homeless workers and set them up in a dormitory in Ueno, with 24-hour guards posted around the building.

"They crammed over 10 people into a 15-mat room," said a former worker who escaped the barracks. "The arrangement was for Y7000 a day, but none of us saw that money. If we broke the rules or tried to escape, they would beat us. They even had men on the work-site to follow us to the bathroom." Other men spoke of similar experiences with construction companies: filthy overcrowded barracks, brutality and little, if any pay. The practice apparently continues.

Temporary lodgings to house 200 of the homeless were built on a reclaimed island in Shibaura. Despite a total cost of Y200 million, the sheds offer lodging for only two months, after which the inhabitants will be back on the streets. Access is limited to a narrow bridge patrolled by guards, and there is a 5pm curfew. "It will be easy to control," said one city official at a meeting of concerned locals. "We won't allow them to prowl the neighborhood for no reason." Said another official: "The first thing we'll do is wash them, then we're going to issue them new underwear, then we're going to crop their hair."

"The government says that finding us work isn't their responsibility," said one Corridor Four resident. "They say we should use our local employment agency. But in order to fill out their forms you need an address, and in order to rent a flat you need a steady income and guarantor."

At nearby City Hall, a spokesman echoed awareness of the difficulties, but dodged responsibility. "In order to earn the understanding of society," he said, "they must take responsibility for their own lives and start contributing to the community. We can't do everything for them."

By the beginning of February, it seemed the entire relocation venture had done nothing for anyone. The temporary facilities were a flop: only 70 of the displaced persons were living there--and they will be chased out later this month. Governor Aoshima is left with another irritating stain on his image, and the police and government planners are left looking silly.

In the shadow of City Hall, many of the homeless who were forcibly removed have now returned--and set up premises a mere 100 meters from the site of the January 24 confrontation.

Aoshima vs. The Barbarians

January 24, 02:00

Sporting red armbands and roused by one of their leaders with a megaphone, the residents of Corridor Four march noisily from one end of the tunnel to the other. At the entrance facing the still-glowing windows of City Hall, they prepare their crude fortifications. One of the support group members oversees the placement of wooden planks against the wall. A handful of helpers strings a makeshift "barbed wire" of rope and twisted coat-hanger metal across the tunnel's eight-meter-wide mouth. As a defense against the authorities, the rope is pathetic--but its creators have assigned it unearthly powers. "This is it," says one man proudly. "This is our secret."

Two other men unfurl an immense white banner that reads "Protest Forcible Eviction!" and stretch it across the passageway. A dozen or so men sprint down the passageway, returning minutes later dragging the miniature trees planted in rectangular concrete tubs that until now concealed the cardboard-shack world from the waves of commuters.

The heavy tubs are stacked behind the "barbed wire," then bolstered with large wooden planks and straw mats. The first ruckus of the night erupts when one of the defenders collars a TV cameraman and shoves him out of the way.

03:00

A chubby, bearded man chains himself to a pillar in the tunnel to the applause and cheers of his companions. Shoji Honda, a key member of Renrakkai, lifts a loud-hailer to his mouth and gives directions, instructing the men to sit in tight rows, as close as possible to the barricade.

04:30

Honda announces that two busloads of riot police have arrived near the passageway. City officials in hard hats, along with some 20 buses, have also been spotted on the bridge directly above the underground corridor. "When the police come," shouts Honda, "lock arms and stick as close as possible to the person in front of you."

The balding man in chains begins leading a chant of "Wasshoi!" (Heave-ho!)

05:00

The authorities turn up the heat. A squadron of security guards appears at the Shinjuku Station end of the corridor. At the other end, a group of over 100 policemen with shields crosses the street from City Hall and heads towards the barricade. The defenders now are surrounded, but begin jeering and taunting their opponents. Ten minutes later, three more busloads of riot police pull up at the station end of the passageway. "I wish they'd hurry up," says the man shackled to the pillar. "These chains are killing me!" The corridor breaks out in nervous laughter.

Honda's voice booms again. "If the city uses force to get at your homes, it will forever mar the history of the Aoshima administration. . . . It will cast the city in infamy in the eyes of the world!" Turning to the steadily growing mass of police and officials in the distance, he shouts, "We have tried to discuss things with you, but you have refused to speak with us. Now you are here to eject us with massive force and sheer violence. This is not the solution we had hoped for. We will fight to the very end."

05:45

On the bridge above the corridor, 100 security guards form a protective cordon around a group of city officials in hard hats. The group descends the flight of stairs to street level and takes position some 100 meters from the barricade. A water cannon truck drives into the vehicular tunnel next to the passageway. Two protest leaders climb to the top of a wood pile forming the left flank of the barrier. They prepare their ammunition: piles of refuse and dozens of eggs they intend to hurl at the oncoming police ranks.

05:50

A voice tinkles from the ceiling-mounted speakers. "This is a message from the Tokyo Metropolitan Government." The corridor resounds with heckling. "Shut up you bastard!" they yell, bent double with laughter. "Die!" shouts a chain-smoking man in a baseball cap.

The voice continues. "The city administration will begin constructing a moving walkway today in Corridor Four. In order to return the passageway to its original state, the city asks the people sleeping here in cardboard boxes to evacuate the premises. Due to the offensive odor, complaints from shopkeepers and obstruction of the thoroughfare, we require that you leave. The passageway belongs to the passersby. We have prepared a housing facility in Minato Ward, where you will be able to stay for two months. You will be given warm food and warm rooms."

"Turn that thing off!" cries one man, as the jeering continues. "We don't want your prison!"

06:30

Over 300 security guards, together with riot police equipped with shields and truncheons, line up in formation just outside the barricade. A city official from the construction bureau confers with the head of the security forces.

One of the defenders, his face covered in scars, slips under the "barbed wire" and pours cooking oil over the ground--a last-ditch attempt to hamper the attackers. The standoff continues as city officials try shooing the mass media away. There are cameramen and reporters from every major network. "Your presence here puts you in considerable danger," yells an official. The cameras keep rolling. Flashes pop.

07:20

The battle erupts, triggered by the advance of some 70 security guards from the opposite end of the corridor. While most of the men follow instructions to remain seated, a small group on top of the barricade, including Ken Kanenari, begins hurling its ammunition at the police: eggs, empty cans, garbage and fistfuls of flour.

07:30-08:00

The battle peaks. The police remove the barricades within seconds, and cut through the "barbed wire" with ridiculous ease. Fire-crackers explode against a background of voices chanting "Go home!" Flour and eggs hail down; a skinny old man in a skull cap seizes a fire extinguisher and sprays it dementedly about him. The police surge into the corridor, into the squatting group of protesters, and bloody faces emerge from the mayhem of flying fists and legs. An old man who has lost his footing claws at the ground, trying to scramble away from the police officer who has grasped his brittle-looking legs. Another policeman rushes over. The frail man vomits abuse as gloved hands lift him off the ground by his armpits.

One by one, the protesters are dragged out of the passageway into the cold morning air, where a crowd of onlookers has gathered to observe a truly bizarre scenario: 850 battle-ready cops and security guards flailing at some 200 sick and aging homeless people. The strange parade of protesters kicks and screams for the hour or so it takes the authorities to haul them from the passageway by their hands and legs. A woman protester being dragged backwards by a policeman tosses her head about furiously, struggling to bite the hands that have locked on to her armpits.

09:30

Trucks enter Corridor Four to remove the cardboard dwellings and their few remaining contents. The passageway is hosed down as construction workers begin to move in with their equipment. The building of Tokyo's newest transportation system, a state-of-the-art moving walkway covering a mere 250 meters between Shinjuku Station and the Tokyo Metropolitan Government building, is finally underway.