Celebrities apologizing for catching COVID-19; patients hiding their infections for fear of being ostracized; so-called “virus vigilantes” harassing potential spreaders of the sickness — such behavior has become all too common in pandemic-era Japan.
“It’s not as frequent as it once was, but we’ve received anonymous phone calls complaining about our alcohol service at night,” says Ryuji Suzuki, a 20-year-old university student who works part time at an izakaya (Japanese pub) in Tokyo’s Bunkyo Ward.
The establishment has been among those that have defied the capital’s requests to refrain from serving alcohol and shorten business hours during various states of emergency, including the current quasi-emergency slated to remain in effect until March 6.
“Some have even threatened to call the police on us, but we just tell them, ‘Go ahead,’” Suzuki says. “It’s not like we’re breaking the law.”
That sense of duty to follow social norms — and intolerance for those who don’t — may be one reason why the nation has been able to avoid suffering the kind of explosive outbreaks seen in other countries despite there being no stringent lockdown measures in place.
Granted, the health care system has been strained as the country has dealt with waves of infections, and the rapidly spreading omicron variant has seen case numbers soar to record highs in recent weeks. But in terms of its death toll, Japan stands on par with nations such as Portugal, Myanmar and the Netherlands, even though its population is far larger than all three countries combined.
Researchers have speculated that there must be an “X-factor” behind the relatively low mortality rates, with theories ranging from the public’s high standard of hygiene to the abundance of a specific intestinal bacteria. Another theory points to Japan’s culture of conformity, represented by the ubiquitous mask-wearing the nation has come to be known for.
“I think the pandemic has shown just how powerful dōchō atsuryoku functions in Japan,” says Naoki Sato, a professor emeritus at Kyushu Institute of Technology, referring to a term that roughly translates as peer pressure.
From avoiding the “three Cs” — closed spaces, crowded places and close-contact settings — to complying with voluntary stay at home requests, the majority of the public has displayed a high level of self-restraint amid emergency decrees.
Why?
“They are wary of the eye of seken,” Sato says, using a word that has no exact equivalent in the English language. “It’s something that has dictated how people in Japan behave for more than a millennium.”
Social conformity
In the “Manyoshu,” Japan’s oldest known poetry anthology compiled during the end of the Nara Period (710–794), the poet Yamanoue no Okura (660–733) laments, “nothing but pain and shame in this world of men, but I cannot fly away, wanting the wings of a bird.”
The Chinese characters for “world” in this poem are the same as those used in seken and essentially describe a similar view, explains Sato, who has been studying the concept for more than two decades and has published books on peer pressure and the Japanese.
The term is often used interchangeably with shakai (society), but refers to more particular power dynamics driven by unofficial rules and expectations that are born when people gather in groups — somewhat akin to a village mentality. These include customs and superstitions many Japanese follow in their daily lives: Avoiding days considered bad luck for weddings and other celebratory occasions, seasonal gift-giving (and the obligatory returning of presents) and, more recently, eating cake on Christmas Eve, to name a few.
Sato says that, historically, a similar concept existed in the West until the Middle Ages when Christianization introduced and reinforced the idea of individuality, individual freedom and self-identity, replacing the communal way of thinking with a more modern “society” that functions as a group of individuals governed by the rule of law.
That transition didn’t take place in Japan until the nation opened up its ports and embraced democratization during the Meiji Era (1868-1912). Even then, the traditional concept of community persevered.
“For example, in Japan parents often teach their children to avoid causing trouble and to be mindful of seken-tei,” Sato says, referring to how they appear in public. “It’s quite different compared to the West where children are raised to be highly individualistic. And that means those who don’t follow social norms or are perceived as acting against the public good are resented and even attacked.”
That normative pressure has manifested itself in various forms over the past two years: antagonism against drivers crossing prefectural borders during states of emergencies; front-line health care workers and their families being harassed; and employees being fired from their jobs after being infected with the virus.
Last month, an elementary school in the capital’s Minato Ward temporarily closed its classrooms and lessons went online after one of its students tested positive for the virus.
A man in his late 30s whose daughter attends the same school says if his child starts showing cold-like symptoms, he won’t take her to the doctor to get tested as long as the symptoms are mild.
“I don’t want us to be a nuisance to her school and other parents,” he says, asking to remain anonymous to protect his family’s identity.
Pluralistic ignorance
On Aug. 8, 2016, Emperor Akihito appeared on television to address the nation. During the unprecedented, 10-minute-long speech, he spoke of his advanced age and the growing burden of his duties, and implied his desire to abdicate. One issue he raised was how imperial successions subdued social activities.
“When the Emperor has ill health and his condition becomes serious, I am concerned that, as we have seen in the past, society comes to a standstill and people’s lives are impacted in various ways,” he said.
“The practice in the Imperial Family has been that the death of an Emperor called for events of heavy mourning, continuing every day for two months, followed by funeral events that continue for one year. ... It occurs to me from time to time to wonder whether it is possible to prevent such a situation.”
The ongoing pandemic is hardly the first time that major events have had a profound impact on public behavior. Similar examples of voluntary self-restraint, or jishuku, have been observed in the past during major calamities and the transition of eras.
When Akihito’s father, Hirohito, collapsed on Sept. 19, 1988, and news of his failing health became widely known, festivals were canceled and many private weddings and corporate gatherings were scrapped or postponed. Reports back then said one major confectionery maker’s Christmas cake production fell by 20% that winter.
“I was surprised when I heard even some gas stations were closed,” says Tatsuya Kameda, a professor at the University of Tokyo’s Graduate School of Humanities and Sociology who was living in the United States at the time.
Hirohito passed away a few months later and drew an end to the Showa Era (1926-89). The nation, as Akihito would later allude to, entered an extended period of mourning.
In the aftermath of the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake that devastated Japan’s northeastern coast, international media hailed survivors for sharing what little resources they had among communities and maintaining social order. Unlike scenes of natural disasters in other countries, there was no widespread rioting or looting.
Meanwhile, cherry blossom viewing events and fireworks festivals were canceled and many refrained from dining out as an expression of collective grief, dealing a blow to the economy and spurring a wider debate on whether things were being taken too far.
“This type of phenomenon can be explained by pluralistic ignorance,” says Kameda, referring to a psychological situation in which a majority of a group privately disagrees with what they erroneously perceive to be the prevailing belief of the group.
A textbook example of this can be seen in Hans Christian Anderson’s classic folk tale, “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” in which the emperor’s men and townspeople avoid pointing out that their master is naked out of fear of being seen as a fool. The concept is also used to explain the so-called bystander effect, which theorizes that individuals are less likely to offer help to victims when others are present.
“Pluralistic ignorance can activate in any society and in any group, but I believe it manifests itself stronger in Japan,” says Kameda, an expert on social decision making. “Compared to the U.S., for example, Japan considers itself to be very homogenous, both historically and ethnically. So there’s the ecological foundation for developing pluralistic ignorance.”
Kameda warns, however, that excessive self-censorship could have serious societal implications, especially under current circumstances when many are working remotely and physical communication is shunned. “Living under extensive periods of normative pressure has adverse effects. People get tired and frustrated, and may no longer feel inclined to reach out to one another.”
Pandemic fatigue
Last month, a 17-year-old student went on a stabbing spree just outside the University of Tokyo ahead of nationwide entrance exams. Two high school students and a 72-year-old man were injured. The suspect, a student at a private high school in Nagoya, was apparently distraught over his poor grades and felt his hopes of enrolling in the elite university and becoming a doctor had been dashed.
The psychological impact of the prolonged public health crisis was cited in a statement his high school released the next day.
“Most of the school events have been canceled due to the coronavirus crisis,” the statement said. “It is likely that the selfish words and actions of the student involved in the case were caused under circumstances where he struggled with isolation and only cared about himself.”
The pandemic’s toll on mental health is unprecedented. Economic insecurity, social isolation and the lingering dread that you or those around you can suddenly fall victim to the pathogen have stirred a toxic mix of stress and anxiety impacting the well-being of many — including teenagers and young adults who have been forced to change their lifestyles for over two years now.
In a December survey conducted by the Japanese Red Cross Society on 600 high school and university students, parents and teachers, 43% of high school and 49% of university students said they felt lethargic. 27% and 20% of the same respective groups said they felt valueless and unneeded, while 18% and 11% found no meaning in life and thought about death.
“Yes, there have been instances during this pandemic where peer pressure led to naming and shaming by the jishuku keisatsu (self-restraint police), but at the same time we’ve witnessed the waning of human relationships and a growing sense of detachment,” says Shinichi Mori, a professor of sociology at Otemon Gakuin University.
And, in a sense, social practices in Japan that often encouraged both camaraderie and peer pressure — after-work drinking parties, for example — have largely taken a back seat, he says.
“Perhaps the deterioration of the social fabric compels some to feel it’s their moral duty to take on rule-breakers.”
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