Chapter 11: Why I left Japan

You'll probably feel a bit disgusted to know that this was one of the main reasons I decided to leave Japan. I probably shouldn't be saying this while I'm still writing these short stories, but what I'm about to share won't be easy to read or process.

It’s difficult to describe how devastating it made me feel. It shocked me because, as I said, I was deeply upset to realise that this was actually the reality in Japan, at least based on my experience. I also know this happens to many others living in Japan, particularly foreigners like me or gaijins.

At this point, I had already been in Japan for almost two years, and my Japanese had become incredibly fluent. Most days, while at school, I had set times for teaching English lessons. Some days, I’d have two lessons, other days five, and occasionally just one. But whenever I was at school, I brought my Minna no Nihongo textbooks. I practised grammar, learned new words, and studied new kanji, doing everything possible to improve my Japanese.

I also found time to speak with the school staff to ensure I was using the language correctly and that my grammar was solid. I always felt that being in a school gave me an advantage when it came to improving my Japanese skills.

Walking around the school, I noticed displays of the children’s work outside each classroom. At the time, the younger kids were writing in basic Japanese, primarily using hiragana and katakana, since they hadn’t learned kanji yet. This made it easier for me to start learning how to read Japanese in a simple, foundational way. Even outside of work, I encountered proper kanji everywhere when I explored the city. This immersion helped solidify my understanding of the language better and faster than when I was at university.

By this point, my Japanese was good. I had also started embracing Japanese fashion, dressing in clothes from local Japanese brands and boutique shops. I loved shopping in Tokyo, especially in Shibuya and Harajuku. I also enjoyed getting my hair done in Japanese salons. Their haircuts were so edgy, trendy, and different from anything I’d experienced in the UK, where hairstyles often mirrored what you’d see in Vogue. So boring and vanilla.

In Japan, the cuts were unique, bold, and experimental, with distinct shapes and colours. It reminded me of the cuts and styles from Toni & Guy, just more creative. I felt incredibly (kakoii) cool!

So, one day, I was taking the train, heading back home after a long day of work. It was a relatively empty train, so I decided to sit in the area designated for elderly people, disabled passengers, and pregnant women, as plenty of seats were available. I didn’t think much of it.

Out of nowhere, while I was scrolling on my phone, a Japanese man, probably in his 50s, walked up to me and interrupted me. He spoke in perfect English with what sounded like an American accent and said, “You shouldn’t be sitting here.”

I automatically switched to Japanese mode and replied, “Sumimasen, suwatte kudasai,” which means, “I’m sorry, please sit here,” or “Please take the seat.” He was accompanied by his wife, who seemed nervous and scared. She sat down in the seat I had offered, while he remained standing.

At first, I hadn’t realised that I was sitting next to another Japanese man who had been paying attention to everything. Under his breath, he muttered something clearly directed at the older man who had confronted me. I couldn’t catch the exact words, but it was something similar to “Typical gaijin behaviour” in Japanese.

I was so angry. I moved to another seat, but I was seething and fuming over what had just happened.

It wasn’t so much the humiliation. I didn’t care about that. It was more that this man had randomly called me out, decided to shout at me, and spoken to me in English, in public, like that. Then another Japanese said something conniving and snide to someone else before me. What made it worse was that the men started laughing.

I waited until the end of my journey, ready to get off the train, still fuming. What pissed me off, and made me realise something wasn’t right, was the reaction (or lack thereof) from the other passengers. No one did anything. They didn’t even glance up to see what was happening. Everyone just kept looking at their phones. I felt so unsafe, and small.

If this had happened in London, people would have at least turned around. They wouldn’t necessarily get involved, but they would have acknowledged that something terrible had just happened. A young woman, probably in her 20s, sitting there minding her own business, had apologised to an older man who decided to speak to her in English and make her feel awful for absolutely no reason. Meanwhile, his wife just sat there, mute, looking as though she was living in fear as well.

This incident highlighted so many things for me.

 It exposed the misogyny.

 It reminded me of the racism.

 And it underscored a complete lack of respect.

I’ll say this: misogyny was a factor here, because yes, he was an older man talking down to a young woman. Had I been a man, would he have spoken to me like that? Maybe not. I was sitting there by myself, and his wife was with him, but she was just as powerless as I felt.

Then there’s the racism. Why did he speak to me in English? How did he know I wasn’t Japanese? I was wearing Japanese clothes, and my haircut was styled in a way that’s typical in Japan. I’ve even been mistaken for being Japanese before. So why, or how, did he know I wasn’t Japanese?

How did he know I wasn’t, say, half-Filipino or half-Vietnamese? He didn’t. He just looked at me and decided I was “other.” He assumed I wasn’t from his country and didn’t speak his language. Even if I had been born and raised in Japan, he would still have seen me as an outsider.

I felt all of those things, and what really put the cherry on top was when the other man, the Japanese guy who wasn’t even part of the situation, started laughing. That angered me the most. It was there I was reminded, like most days, I did not belong in Japan, or part of the community. 

To end this short story, I’ll share how this event concluded. When my train stop came up, something powerful stirred within me. It felt like a fire warming up and steaming hot in my stomach. It propelled me to approach them and confront the Japanese man who laughed at me. Not the man who shouted at me, but the one who laughed.

Out of respect, I knew the wife was there, and I didn’t want to cause problems for her at home. So, I turned to the man, who laughed and shouted, “Shut up, you motherfucker!” That’s when everyone on the train turned around. And then, I walked off. I hope the Japanese man who shouted at me felt that.

It didn’t make me feel any better. I was still angry. But the look on his face, that shocked expression, made me feel like I had stood up to him somehow. I wanted him to go to bed that night, knowing someone had called him out for his stupid, foolish actions.

You shouldn’t laugh at someone, and you shouldn’t let this kind of behaviour slide. But at the same time, this is not my country, and I don’t think like they do.

And this piece might come across as racist or not: it’s cultural relativism as well. It made me wonder: are women silenced in this country? Is that why his wife was so quiet, practically mute, and didn’t say anything like, “Leave her alone”? Or was it just him who made his wife feel uncomfortable?

It just upset me and made me think it was time to leave Japan. I was 25, possibly 26, years old when this happened. To this day, I still ask myself whether I would still be there if that incident had never happened. If I had never received that kind of treatment on that train, would I have stayed? Or was the universe trying to test me?

I still wonder if I would be content living in Japan now, possibly as a Japanese citizen, with a passport, and fully settled. Or was it inevitable that if it hadn’t happened that day, another day would come when someone else would wrong me and expose me to racial abuse?

This is something that happens throughout Japan. It’s something I’ve observed and experienced. I’ve had friends who were also Filipino and faced racial abuse. However, this isn’t a chapter where I want to express that Japanese people are racist because I know for a fact not all of them are.

I told multiple people at the school about what happened to me, and they apologised profusely. They said, “On behalf of the Japanese people, we are not like this. Those people on the train were crazy.” They were so angry that it had even happened to me. They begged me, “Please don’t leave Japan. We really like you.”

These people, teachers, colleagues and mothers, wanted me to continue teaching English in Japan. As much as I enjoyed the job and helping children learn English, I had to consider my well-being and safety. Did I feel safe there after that incident? Of course not. I didn’t. It was time for me to go.

If someone were to ask me to go there now, it’d be a different story. Years of experience and age have taught me that much of life is about the people who come in and out of your life. Everyone’s different; some are kinder than others. It’s up to you to decide what to do with those lessons. If something keeps happening to you repeatedly, you must ask yourself: What are you doing wrong? What are you doing right?

This incident happened to me only once, and yet I left the country immediately afterwards. That tells me a lot about how strong I was then, but it also shows how deeply it disturbed me.

I hope this never happens to anyone else. I can’t promise that, though, because of our world. Everyone is different, and there are varying levels of craziness and racism out there. If there’s anything I want people to take away from this chapter, it’s always to be careful when you’re out. Japan is a safe country, but there will always be strange and weird people everywhere. Please be aware, stay calm, and avoid reckless behaviour. At the same time, set boundaries and take care of yourself. You should never feel violated or unsafe.

Please note: Names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals and organisations