Welcome back to ‘why it’s shifty’ and today we are looking at a strange phenomenon: Japan’s evaporating people. Commonly known as johatsu, these people just randomly vanish, leaving behind their family and friends to wonder exactly what happened. Popularised in the 1960s and 1970s, there’s something that has never sat right with me about this. But, at the end of the day, it is up to the individual. Even if the individual may not be in a sound state of mind when they commit to something that will come to redefine everything about who they are…
Plot
In 1995, a 42-year-old salaryman known as Mr Sato (name changed for privacy) abruptly vanished from his life in Tokyo. To his family, his disappearance came without warning: he left for work one morning in his usual dark suit and tie but never returned home. What his wife and two children did not know was that his company had collapsed under the weight of debt during Japan’s economic downturn of the 1990s. Facing humiliation, harassment from creditors, and the prospect of being unable to provide for his family, Sato chose to “evaporate.”
He contacted a yonige-ya, a discreet relocation service that specialises in helping people disappear. Within hours, his belongings were quietly moved, his bank account closed, and by nightfall he was already on a long-distance coach to Osaka.
Cases like Mr Sato’s highlight why people in Japan resort to johatsu. The cultural weight of shame and honour is immense. Bankruptcy, divorce, academic failure, or even the stigma of job loss can feel unbearable. For many, vanishing seems less painful than confronting family disappointment or public disgrace. Japan’s social fabric places strong emphasis on conformity and duty, which means personal missteps are rarely seen as private struggles; instead, they ripple outward, affecting the individual’s family and community. Evaporation offers an escape hatch, albeit a lonely and precarious one, from these suffocating pressures.
The process of evaporation is surprisingly systematic. Once a person decides to disappear, they may enlist the services of yonige-ya companies, who operate quietly at night to avoid attracting attention. These businesses arrange transport, secure cash-only accommodation in working-class neighbourhoods, and connect their clients with unregistered day labour in construction or factories.
For those without the funds to hire such services, simply abandoning identification documents, switching cities, and avoiding digital footprints can be enough. Japan’s privacy laws and limited police involvement in adult disappearances mean that as long as no crime is suspected, authorities seldom interfere. In many cases, the family’s only recourse is to hire a private detective, but the trail often goes cold quickly.
Mr Sato eventually found himself in Osaka’s Kamagasaki district, an area known for its transient day labourers. He lived in a small one-room flat, paid in cash, and worked irregular jobs on building sites. For years, he avoided contacting his family, even though he missed them deeply. The thought of returning filled him with dread; he feared the shame of reappearing as a failed breadwinner. Instead, he blended into the community of others like him, men who had evaporated under similar circumstances, sharing unspoken solidarity. His life became one of quiet anonymity, free from creditors but haunted by absence.
Into the Theories
Burden of Social Shame:
In a society where personal failings are rarely viewed as private matters, individuals who experience bankruptcy, divorce, or unemployment often feel they have disgraced not only themselves but also their families. Unlike in many Western cultures, where adversity is often met with sympathy or a chance to “start again,” Japanese cultural expectations can make mistakes appear irredeemable.
This perception of shame is heightened by the concept of gaman (enduring suffering silently) which discourages people from seeking support. For some, vanishing seems like the only option to preserve dignity while sparing their loved ones from public embarrassment. Disappearance therefore becomes less an act of abandonment and more a radical attempt at protecting family honour, albeit one that often leaves scars of absence and unanswered questions.
Economic Pressures:
Following the bursting of the asset bubble in the early 1990s, secure lifetime employment became far less common, replaced by unstable part-time or temporary contracts. As debt, job insecurity, and rising living costs weighed heavily on individuals, some found themselves unable to cope financially. The aggressive tactics of debt collectors, who often harass families as well as borrowers, amplify this pressure.
Without strong welfare safety nets or a culture that readily accepts bankruptcy as a fresh start, people feel cornered. In these circumstances, disappearing offers both physical and psychological escape from insurmountable obligations. Johatsu often relocate to urban districts where informal, cash-in-hand work in construction or cleaning is readily available, allowing them to survive without official documentation.
Economic hardship, therefore, does not just strain daily life; it actively drives individuals into the shadows, making evaporation appear the only viable solution.
Freedom and Reinvention:
While many disappear out of desperation, another theory suggests that some choose evaporation as a form of liberation. Japan’s highly structured society prizes conformity: from school to workplace, individuals are expected to follow rigid rules and suppress personal desires. For those who feel trapped by family responsibilities, oppressive work environments, or traditional gender roles, the act of vanishing offers a rare chance to reclaim agency.
Starting over in a new city without ties can be seen as a form of reinvention, enabling people to live anonymously and on their own terms. In this sense, johatsu is not only about fleeing shame but also about seizing a kind of freedom unavailable within mainstream society.
Why It’s Shifty
The idea of Japan’s “evaporating people” is highly controversial because it touches on sensitive cultural, social, and ethical issues. On one hand, some view disappearance as an act of personal freedom. In Japan, adults have the legal right to vanish if they wish, and the police rarely intervene unless a crime is suspected. From this perspective, johatsu can be seen as individuals exercising agency over their own lives, escaping pressures they deem intolerable.
On the other hand, critics argue that the practice reflects profound social failures. Disappearing is rarely a simple choice; it is usually driven by debt, domestic abuse, or fear of shame, suggesting that society provides insufficient safety nets and too few avenues for support. Families left behind often suffer prolonged grief, not knowing whether their loved one is alive or dead, which raises questions about whether such disappearances should really be tolerated as a private decision.
There is also debate around the industries that enable the phenomenon. Yonige-ya companies, for example, profit from helping people vanish, yet critics claim they exploit vulnerable individuals while contributing to the erosion of trust within families and communities. Furthermore, the existence of hidden districts where many johatsu live raises concerns about invisible populations being excluded from social systems.
Conclusion
I hope you’ve enjoyed this week’s ‘why it’s shifty’ and honestly, I had not heard much about this before writing it. There have been many cases of this happening that are available to read online. Next week, strange cases of illness, terror and even death at the happiest place on Earth…
Next Week: Death by Disney
AloJapan.com