Why do people vanish in Japan?

Sometimes, the sound of someone’s footsteps fades one day, yet their absence lingers, on doorsteps, on quiet streets, in the corner of a photograph. Amid the noise of daily life, a peculiar silence emerges. You call their name, and they do not answer, yet you feel their breath somewhere nearby. Disappearing is not always about dying; sometimes, it is simply about choosing never to respond again.

There comes a moment in some people’s lives when they long to hear their own voice above all else. When days blur into sameness, when roles narrow and life no longer feels like it belongs to you but to a script written for you, some choose to leave. They do not seek death, they seek silence. For some, this silence is freedom; for others, surrender and for yet others, it is simply a way to live differently.

In Japan, this phenomenon has a name: “Johatsu”, literally “evaporated.” One day you exist, the next, you are gone. No letters, no traces, no explanation. Every year, thousands of people vanish without a trace. They do not return from work, cut off contact with family, close their bank accounts. It is as if their names never existed at all.

Yet Johatsu is not merely an act of hiding. Often, it is a quiet expression of shame, debt, failure, familial tension, or simply exhaustion from life. In the eyes of society, these people may be considered incapable, but by erasing themselves, they attempt to erase the shame reflected in others’ eyes as well.

In Japan’s deeply ingrained culture of shame, where everyone’s actions are constantly measured by how they appear in the eyes of others vanishing can be seen as a bold, almost pure act of “rebirth.” When the weight of life becomes unbearable, walking away can become a form of defiance, a quiet declaration of freedom.

Yet a question lingers: are these people truly running away, or are they simply choosing to live somewhere quieter? The phenomenon of “Johatsu”, the “evaporated,” is not only a mirror of Japan but a reflection of all modern societies, where the pressure to perform flawlessly often leaves people suffocating.

We all occasionally wish to disappear to breathe in a place where no one notices, without explanation or trace. Yet few actually follow through. Perhaps this strange disappearance, which we call Johatsu, is one of the world’s quietest rebellions. To erase one’s identity, silence one’s voice, and distance oneself even from one’s own shadow is not just an escape. It is another way of existing.

To understand Johatsu, one must first grasp Japan’s culture of shame. At the core of every social interaction, every behavior, even every emotion, lies the question: “What will others think?” Here, it is not who you are that matters, but how others perceive you.

American anthropologist Ruth Benedict, in her seminal work The Chrysanthemum and the Sword (1946), described Japan as a “shame culture.” She wrote:

“In Japanese society, the main mechanism regulating a person’s behavior is not conscience but the gaze of the community.”

This insight explains much. While guilt in Western societies is often an individual matter, in Japan, shame is collective. A single mistake does not just reflect on the individual. It brings dishonor to family, surname, and even workplace. In such a system, the social cost of failure or weakness is immense. That is why many Japanese, particularly men, choose to disappear rather than face job loss, debt, or familial confrontation. In other words, being perceived as a failure in the eyes of society can sometimes feel heavier than not existing at all.

In an interview, Japanese sociologist Hiroki Azuma once remarked:

“In Japan, a person’s identity is inseparable from their social mask. When that mask falls, the person disappears as well.”

This idea captures the very essence of Johatsu to evaporate not as an act of death, but as a quiet metaphor for removing the mask society demands we wear. It is neither suicide nor a full escape. It is a silent rejection of the roles, duties, and expectations that define one’s place in the system.

For some, choosing to become Johatsu is not driven by shame alone, but by protection. In a society where a single person’s debt, bankruptcy, or public humiliation can stain an entire family, disappearance becomes an act of sacrifice. When one vanishes, the social “stain” disappears with them. In that sense, to vanish can be both a personal and familial ritual of salvation.

But Japan’s culture of shame shapes more than just social relations. It molds the very landscape of the human mind. Beneath the surface of politeness and precision, there lies a quiet exhaustion. Sometimes it is not depression, nor loneliness, nor even the desire to escape. It is simply a feeling a sense that one no longer fits into the world.

Each morning brings the same streets, the same faces, the same words. And then, one day, a realization settles in: the rhythm that once held life together now feels like a cage. At that moment, a person does not wish to die. They merely wish to disappear from sight. To vanish, in this sense, is to reclaim a space of silence in a world that never stops watching.

The psychology of those who disappear begins here. The Johatsu are not defeated by their absence. Rather, they release the pain of their lives that society’s relentless demands have trapped. The pressure to be perfect, to meet expectations at every turn, can become so suffocating that even the simple act of breathing feels denied. Every mistake, every debt, every fractured relationship is transformed into shame, and shame becomes unbearable. In such an environment, the inner world of a person is compressed, until one day it silently bursts but without a sound, for this explosion results in disappearance.

Psychologists explain that prolonged social pressure can freeze a person’s sense of self. A frozen self neither cries nor laughs. It simply wishes to withdraw. Johatsu can be seen, in part, as a form of psychological freezing. When the inner voice is lost, the external voice is silenced as well. To vanish is, in this sense, an attempt to restore internal silence.

This phenomenon opens a window into a philosophy of existence. Freedom sometimes comes from being someone whom no one recognizes. A new name, a new city, a new breath… Survival can lie not in erasing one’s identity but in rewriting it from scratch. Yet this freedom carries a hidden ache. To disappear is also, in a sense, to separate from oneself. Even if the desire for a new beginning is strong, this choice is often rooted in profound loneliness and deep quiet. Sometimes, the vanished hope that in their absence, someone will finally notice their pain but often, no one does.

Yet this disappearance is not a defeat. On the contrary, Johatsu can be one of the bravest decisions a person ever makes. There is no death in it, yet the separation feels as profound as dying. It is a way to defy the noise, to break the rhythm imposed by society, to silently answer the question: “Who am I supposed to be in the eyes of others?”
Through disappearance, people sometimes finally learn how to breathe. Because sometimes, freedom is not about existing, it is about no longer being seen.

Nigar Shahverdiyeva
Sociologist and Research Writer