Last in a two-part series O n a typical Saturday evening, I stroll around the bustling streets of Shibuya with my friends, dressed up, heels clicking, ready to hit a couple of trendy shops. The chilly breeze puffs up the hairs on my arms and I shudder — winter is approaching. We chat about school, boys, life, this girl's shoes, that lady's bag, when suddenly — like the zoom lens of a camera — my focus shifts. Under the roof of a closed shop lays a dark mound: a homeless man. I have an immediate desire to rush over, offer money — do something. My eyes stare, my brain buzzes with ideas. My legs, however, keep moving. It's no use, I think. Money runs out, and what would he use it for — drugs, alcohol, cigarettes? So I walk on.

In an ultramodern city of 12.6 million citizens, 95 million mobile phones and 80,000 restaurants, this is the stark reality: 4.4 percent unemployed, 460,000 lacking food security and over 3,000 homeless, sleeping in tents, seeking shelter under roofs, wandering from street to street. From a young age, I had been concerned about homelessness, but until recently the most I'd done about it was buy goods at charity bake sales or dump out change into collection boxes next to cash registers.

Earlier this year, however, I finally took action. I signed up for a Saturday food distribution shift for homeless people at Ueno organized by Second Harvest Japan, a food bank group.