The theme that constantly captures my interest is “community.”
Today, I’d like to put into words and leave behind my thoughts on community, the strong and the weak, and loneliness.
The strong and the weak, hierarchy, anxiety
Looking at various theories of community, I always find that many of them are depicted from what might be called the perspective of the powerful—an idealized landscape seen through their eyes. Here, “the powerful” doesn’t refer to a narrow image based on specific traits of power. Think of it instead as an abstracted totality that encompasses images of “the powerful”—economic power, communicative power, physical power, hereditary power, and so on.
First, let me outline one facet of my multifaceted interpretation of human nature.
Wherever three people gather—or perhaps even just two—humans almost reflexively seek to establish:
“Let’s decide who’s on top.”
In other words, humans are perpetually unsettled unless they determine “who among us is the strong one, or the weak one”—that is, unless they establish a hierarchy. I believe humans are fundamentally such hopelessly flawed, imperfect beings.
This method of establishing hierarchy varies across cultures.
In Japan, it’s based on:
Age, seniority, bloodline, titles,
and beyond these, an unspoken hierarchy not reflected in visible information.
In Western societies,
competitive resilience, achievements, charisma, autonomy, and the ability to articulate oneself.
And so on. Furthermore, from an evolutionary perspective, in the case of primates not too distant from us,
physical superiority, effective intimidation, alliances, and access to resources—
these factors determine the hierarchy.
Therefore, when I engage with community theory, the first thing I seek to discern from it is the following perspective: Humans are troublesome creatures who will assert dominance over others at every opportunity. I look to see if the theory contains a perspective on how it addresses this flaw. When I find no mention or acknowledgment of this human defect,
I find myself thinking, “Ah, this theory is stuck at this stage.”
So why can’t humans let go of establishing hierarchies among themselves?
Isn’t it because of anxiety?
For example, let me put into words the image that comes to mind when I hear the phrase “trust relationship.” Below is an extremely crude expression, and I apologize for using such a hackneyed phrase, but there’s a crude expression, “holding each other by the balls.” In other words, even if someone gives you the illusion of mutual trust today, there’s no guarantee they will tomorrow. If that happens, you can kill them, neutralize them, at will. That phrase carries that implication.
In this way, people superficially label relationships where they can neutralize the other person whenever necessary as “trust” or “a relationship where we can speak openly,” while deep down, they attach the label “safety mechanism.” I think this allows them to feel temporarily liberated from anxiety.
This manifests concretely as follows:
At drinking gatherings among “close associates,” people get excited talking trash about their boss or share past failures, smiling and saying “I get it~.” They briefly savor the illusion of mutual understanding. This creates a sense of having gained “connection.”
Conversely, in such spaces,
those who
“don’t drink,”
“don’t speak ill,”
and remain constantly calm, offering only objective opinions. Such personalities are shunned and not considered part of the group.
Humans have this side to them.
Put another way, this human trait could be described as a desire for “manageability.”
Relationships where you can speak your true feelings,
relationships where you can show your weaknesses,
relationships where you can share gossip.
All these relationships are based on the reassurance that “you can predict how far the other person will deviate.”
Now, up to this point, we’ve examined the communities humans create from perspectives like hierarchy, the strong and the weak. As a result, it seems unfortunate but true that, regardless of the type of community, we can’t expect much in terms of the happiness and fulfillment of all its members.
Ultimately, doesn’t it seem that only those at the top of the hierarchy—the strong—benefit within a community?
This question naturally arises.
And many theories of community lack the philosophy to answer it, nor do they even recognize the need to construct such a philosophy.
They almost unconsciously assume the premise that “if we talk, we should be able to understand each other.” And they fail to see the existence of those who are erased by that very premise.
Given this,
it’s only natural that opinions emerge like:
“We can’t expect anything from communities”
“A society where money solves problems is far kinder to the weak.”
It’s hardly surprising if people perceive these theories as merely painting an ideal comfortable for the powerful, without seriously confronting humanity’s inherent imperfections.
Regarding this perspective contrasting communal bonds with money, I’ll elaborate a bit more carefully on my thoughts.
It’s necessary to note the structural difference: money demands no meaning, while community always demands meaning.
In other words, within a community, roles, recognition, and a sense of belonging function as “meaning.” And if humans are beings who cannot escape hierarchy, stepping down from that hierarchy directly leads to losing the meaning of one’s existence within the community.
Therefore, people strive to remain strong. They refuse to be weak.
And they fear those who disrupt or destroy the hierarchy.
In other words, it seems hardly an exaggeration to suggest that most communities that have existed and are still being designed today were, for the most part, engineered as anxiety-management devices for the strong.
To summarize this chapter: When discussing communities, confronting the inescapable human frailty and imperfection that stubbornly clings to hierarchy, and considering how to overcome it, is an indispensable point of discussion.
Those who do not fear solitude, those who can only breathe within it
Up to this point, we’ve considered community, hierarchy, and the perspective of the strong and the weak.
In my view, there’s something particularly missing from Japanese community theory.
It’s the perspective that accepts and affirms solitude.
In Japan,
those who confront loneliness head-on,
those who do not fear loneliness,
those who can only breathe within loneliness—
such individuality tends to be labeled, almost violently, as “people who need help.” Or worse, there is a strong tendency to pretend “such people don’t exist.”
Here, I’ll speak for myself.
I place myself among those who “not only fear loneliness, but can only breathe within it.”
In other words, I take a skeptical stance toward the very premise that treats loneliness as a “pathology.”
“No matter what words you string together to justify your solitude, you are sick. You need help.”
I feel a profound discomfort with this kind of logic that brutally preempts “solitude = pathology” and proceeds as if that premise were self-evident. It’s akin to worrying about a nocturnal creature and asking, “Why don’t you stay active during the day?” That’s how fundamentally misaligned the starting points of their perceptions are.
Labeling someone as “in need of help”—that is, a “support recipient”—actually carries another aspect: it can “lock in the future of that individual’s uniqueness.”
Because the label “support recipient” implies not only
“they are struggling now”
but also
“they will continue to struggle.”
Thus, the “support recipient” label, while well-intentioned, narrows the future possibilities inherent in that individual’s uniqueness.
Pathologizing loneliness possesses a violence that subtly, unnoticed by anyone, shifts the understanding from “that person is like that now” to “that person is inherently that kind of being.”
Perhaps reflecting this social context that defines loneliness as a pathology, I feel there are very few works in Japanese popular entertainment that portray loneliness as something positive. The majority of Japanese works follow plots like:
“A lonely person gains understanding and is no longer lonely”
or
“A lonely person inevitably meets ruin.”
Amidst this, as one of the few examples of a story that confronts loneliness head-on,
I would like to introduce:
“I Am a Hero” by Kengo Hanazawa.
Please note that the following contains spoilers for this work.
――The protagonist is a manga artist whose work was briefly praised in the past.
But that success didn’t last, and he now finds himself in an unfavorable position within the industry.
His imaginary friend tells him,
“The reason your work is boring is because you have no interest in other people,”
hitting upon a kernel of truth.
Yet the protagonist still cannot fully accept this.
Then a zombie apocalypse erupts,
and the people around him begin transforming one after another into zombies—ZQNs.
Those who become ZQNs are eventually absorbed into a colossal ZQN, merging with it.
This fusion is not depicted as a tragedy, but rather
as an experience of gaining “peace,” “connection,”
or a “place to return to.”
But the protagonist alone is never absorbed by the giant ZQN until the very end.
In a world where every human being within sight has vanished,
he alone survives.
Even so, there is no sorrow in his expression.
—This concludes the synopsis of “I Am a Hero.”
“Not being able to survive with everyone else,
just one person,
living on in the world—
that kind of ending is too cruel.”
“I don’t understand the meaning.”
Many readers may be left with this impression after finishing the story.
This tale offers no salvation. That much is certain.
However, this work does not treat loneliness
as something to be overcome,
or something to be healed.
Nor does it portray loneliness
as a temporary phase before being reabsorbed into the community.
Those who dwell in the surrounding forests
They do not live within the village, but in the forest surrounding it.
Some might interpret this as escapism.
Yet I wonder if there might be another perspective.
If everyone lived in the village, friction would become excessive.
If everyone formed connections, hierarchies would inevitably strengthen.
Therefore, those who keep their distance,
those who remain uninvolved,
and those who live in the forest.
Couldn’t it be that the existence of such people has, in fact, stabilized human communities?
Is a community that immediately labels solitude as “pathological” and excludes those who live within it truly healthy?
Please don’t misunderstand me.
I am only saying that “there are people who can only live in solitude,”
not that “everyone should live in solitude.”
Community theories that fail to confront or address these questions surrounding “solitude,” as discussed in this chapter, also make me think, “Ah, so this is the limit of this argument at this stage.”
In other words, community theories that cannot accept the existence of those who can live in solitude, those who can only live in solitude, are incomplete. And it is precisely because of this incompleteness that they reproduce the strong and the weak.
It’s not that Japanese people “cannot accept loneliness”; it’s that they “cannot imagine loneliness”
For many Japanese people, loneliness is perceived as something
“painful,”
“anxious,”
“something to be ended quickly.”
That’s why I think it’s difficult to imagine loneliness
as it truly is—
raw,
as a state of being,
as a form.
Perhaps this is a limit of imagination, lying beneath the surface of malice and exclusion.
That said, reality is difficult
Thus far, I have discussed points often overlooked in Japanese community theory.
I realize I’ve been speaking freely, but it is also true that presenting a vision of community capable of resolving the problems I’ve raised in this article is, realistically, extremely difficult.
Even if one were to say, “Why not simply prohibit ranking?”
What would be the basis for such a prohibition?
If prohibited by law, it would likely lack flexibility, leaving some people unsaved. Moreover, it would create a framework where decisions—whether to change something once established or to leave it unchanged—are judged purely in terms of “winning or losing.” Humans tend to neglect the essence, abandon those in distress, and instead scramble to avoid being “the one who loses to that guy.”
Then, even if we prohibit it through “rules” set by an ‘elder’ figure within a small group, history clearly shows, as philosopher John Acton stated, that “absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
At this point, to reach any kind of compromise from a utilitarian perspective,
we seem to have little choice but to rely on individualism.
But individualism also has problems.
As individualism accelerates,
people start saying,
“I can’t agree to that consensus. Because I’ve been hurt. We’re going with individualism, right? Then if even one person objects, we have to listen to their voice, don’t we?”
This leads to nothing getting decided, problems being shelved, nothing getting resolved, and those suffering being left behind. The accumulated frustration of the oppressed then erupts into a powerful backlash, causing people to demand authoritarian rule as a reaction.
Just as is happening in the real world today.
So, what should be done?
Here again, I believe “anxiety” is the crucial point.
Can’t We Speak of Our Anxiety?
However, people who point out things like “You’re actually feeling anxious” have always been disliked throughout history. Most people—no, almost everyone—who receive such criticism react with anger. They must appear strong; they cannot afford to seem weak. That’s precisely why they get angry. If this person holds power, it’s a constant theme in human history that the speaker becomes a target for purging.
Still, I can’t help but wonder.
If it had been a society where people like Stalin, Mao Zedong, Pol Pot,
could have said,
“Hey, everyone, listen up. Seems like I’m feeling pretty anxious lately,”
might things have turned out differently?
As a writer and a dreamer, I can’t help but ponder such things.
In Conclusion
A community, by its very nature,
should not exist solely to gather people together,
but also to allow people to keep their distance.
Before treating solitude as a pathology,
society must not lose the space to imagine
what kind of breathing pattern that solitude represents.
In modern Japan,
I also feel we’re too fixated on independence
and fail to teach the importance of self-discipline.
Self-discipline means recognizing, “Perhaps I am feeling anxious,”
and then adjusting oneself accordingly.
That is what I believe.
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