June
1999, Xene #10
A Face in the Crowd
- Hokkaido's Invisible Escapees
from the South -
by William Kennedy
Ken Suzuki is not comfortable talking about how he
came to Hokkaido. "What happened to me can happen
to anyone," he says quietly. It is the first
thing he says. His discomfort in talking about himself
is obvious and he frequently adjusts his glasses and
runs his fingers through his short gray hair as he
tells his story.
"I'm interested in helping others," he says.
"And I want people to know that it can happen
to anyone. We are all walking on the edge. It doesn't
take much to fall over. It can happen to you; it can
happen to anybody."
Suzuki talking about his experience as a johatsu,
which literary means evaporating. It is the Japanese
term used to the describe people who have left behind
all traces of their old lives to start anew elsewhere
in Japan.
It is impossible to say how many of Japan's missing
person cases are johatsu, but their numbers are thought
to be growing as the country's continuing economic
malaise produces more casualties. Many of these escapees
come to Hokkaido, drawn by the sprawling prefecture's
reputation as Japan's frontier, a place full of possibilities
where those anxious for a second chance can get a
fresh start.
For
a foreigner in Japan, it is easy to misunderstand
and say that this is simply the same desire which
helped settle his or her own country. But according
to Suzuki, the johatsu is regarded by many Japanese
in a much different light. He is a freak, an anomaly
who has defied convention by denying social and familial
obligations which endure to this day.
Suzuki has broken no laws, nor has he done anything
wrong, at least in a legal sense. But for years he
has lived like a criminal, looking over his shoulder,
fearful that his past would be uncovered. The penalty
for being found out would be the loss of the life
he has made for himself and a return to what he calls
"death in life."
In spite of this, Suzuki agreed to speak with Xene,
in the hope that he can somehow help others going
through what he has experienced and do something to
ease the stigma attached to johatsu.
A member of a shadowy fraternity with no attendance
records, Suzuki admits the difficulty in what he is
doing. He does not know who he is speaking to and
for his own sake, he cannot let his audience know
who he is. Only two people in Hokkaido know his secret
and the interview for this story -- in which he has
been given a false name -- was conducted at this writer's
home rather than in a place where someone might overhear
him.
The details of his past life, he says, are not important.
He was a successful businessman in Honshu, running
his own company, until the collapse of the "Bubble
economy" in the early '90s. His company went
bankrupt and his marriage fell apart soon after that,
ending in divorce. He was soon reduced to working
as a day laborer, one of the lowest positions in Japan's
economic structure.
Suzuki's life was in tatters and he was in shock.
"I was merely existing rather than living,"
he remembers. Had he not left, he says he would have
died.
When he did leave, it was completely unplanned. Waiting
at the station for his train to work, he simply got
on a different line, one heading north instead of
south. He traveled across the country for several
weeks, staying with friends. When the time came to
return home, he found himself facing another choice
at the train station.
"To me, one way meant death. The other way meant
life," he says. His arrival in Hokkaido was equally
unplanned. A backpacker directed him to Oshamanbe,
at the southern end of the island. He found his way
to Sapporo to look for work and from there he quickly
went to a small farming town. There was little else
in the area other than agriculture and so Suzuki found
himself taking up farm work. Lost in despair and nihilism,
he kept to himself, and his life consisted of work
and gambling away his wages. Alone in his room at
night, he would lose himself in thought.
"I
thought, wherever I go, whatever I do, I'll be dead,
so it won't matter," he says.
During this time, he lived like a fugitive. He shunned
all contact for fear of being forced to return to
the life he had escaped. He did not have a phone.
He avoided large groups in case he was spotted by
someone who might know him from down south or recognize
him from a missing persons notice. He was terrified
of the police. A speeding ticket or any kind of documentation
would create an unwanted paper trail.
"I was in hiding; I didn't want to be found by
anyone," he says.
This led to a vicious cycle in which he became even
more alienated from society, unable to even rent a
video or order a pizza.
It was farm work, he says, that saved him. The farmers
he worked with had little time for formalities and
no interest in where he was from or what he had done.
They were won over by his hard work, and they unceremoniously
made room for him in their community. Acceptance came
gradually, with the farmers matter-of-factly letting
him know when there was work to be done. Notes would
be left for him on public message boards.
Working the land with people who simply accepted him
for who he was gave Suzuki a sense of fulfillment
he hadn't known before. As the years passed, the focus
of his fears changed. He now began to worry about
losing what he had in Hokkaido rather than having
to return to Honshu.
He still maintained a low profile, but he knew that
to protect the life he had made for himself, he would
eventually have to confront his past. He reached a
watershed in his third year, when his driver's license
expired. He had always loved driving and knew that
he would have to deal with the government.
Before that, though, he had to initiate personal contact.
He reluctantly wrote a letter to his family and found
himself surprised by the power of his mother's love.
"I thought nobody would understand, but my mother
tried to understand and she supported me," he
says.
Bolstered
by his family's support, he has now officially established
himself in Hokkaido. This is where he lives and where
he belongs, and he bristles at the idea that he should
return to Honshu. "The idea that people might
want to take me back is an insult," he says.
A complete resolution, however, is impossible. His
immediate family are the only ones in Honshu who know
where he is. He has not contacted his old friends
and has no plans to. Here in Hokkaido, he has no desire
to test the bounds of his neighbors' acceptance with
the news that he experienced johatsu.
It's not a perfect ending, but it is one Ken Suzuki
can live with. He knows that he is better off than
many others in his situation who continue to suffer
alone. Having been through the worst of it, he offers
some advice.
"You need passion," he says. "If you
even the slightest amount of passion, there're always
a chance."
As for society in general, Suzuki would like to see
a little more compassion and acceptance. In a crowd
of 300 people -- particularly in Hokkaido -- there
is a good chance that there is at least one johatsu,
he says. And he has a warning for those who would
still judge him and those like him.
Take care and look around you carefully. Don't assume
that everything lasts forever."
