By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

 

IT may happen unnoticed in other countries without a term for it, but in Japan, it has a name. That’s because more than any other country, Japan has nearly one hundred thousand of them yearly, individuals choosing to vanish, leaving behind their identities, their loved ones, careers, and material belongings in a desperate bid to escape the pressures of society. The reasons could be shame, disgrace, personal failure, despair or a crime. Japan calls this act of disappearance, johatsu, which means “evaporation”.

Johatsu is facilitated by “night movers”, companies that provide services for those who want to disappear, without drawing attention, and providing an easy transition from creating new identities to support systems to cope with a new life. It may seem like a drastic solution to life’s challenges, but it offers a way out, a hope for a fresh start, and not as extreme as resorting to suicide. In 2024, Japan reported 20,320 suicides, equivalent to 16.4 suicides per 100,000 inhabitants.

There are many reasons why individuals “evaporate” from society, or in a personal level, withdraw from friends. Some friends disappear, gradually or abruptly, for reasons of their own, which I respect profoundly. Often, this happens when faced with one’s mortality, which propels immediate action on priorities, material or spiritual. It is not the same as Johatsu by a long stretch, but the impact of alienation is the same, and no night movers to facilitate the transition. Different people cope differently, like plants when blown by the wind, as in the poem I wrote on July 2, entitled,

Winds:

It swept, gently, at first
then swirled, frantically
tearing, in surprise
the petals of the yellow bells
the leaves too, were torn
from their stems, except
for the raffia, tightly
holding on, bending
with the wind, intensely
in a tango

In July

July is here, with the rain
drenching newly-opened petals
shaking off buds, about to bloom
falling, becoming one with the soil
or swept away to nowhere
or to somewhere, where
they gather, surrender
or live, or die

Or as rendered by poet Marites Viado, in her poem Rootbound:

Tightly wound beneath the soil,
its roots have nowhere left to roam—
a prisoner in its pot.
Yet when the winds rise and howl,
it does not fall.
What cannot stretch,
learns to cling.

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