Fishers of Men
I have lived in Japan for almost a year now. The steady scrutiny that accompanies the life of a so‑called gaijin outside the big cities no longer unsettles me. Children greet me as they coast past on bicycles, pensioners bow if I avoid blocking the aisles, and girls in navy uniforms let their eyes linger for a moment when they think no one notices. Instead of discomfort, I feel quiet ease. People treat me with kindness or at least with courtesy that seems honest. Many are happy to speak a few words, test their English, or ask why I picked their town over the neon capitals they know from television. Each morning I rehearse simple Japanese, relieved when the sounds land cleanly.
I come from a country known for old wounds and a renewed appetite for exclusion. It’s hard for me to ignore or even forget that. Japan is conservative, and I understood that before stepping off the plane, yet I was still shaken when an extremist party drew strong support in the recent election, most of it from voters my age or younger, some of them friends who share coffee with me on Saturdays. Their approval surprised me more than the numbers on the screen. It showed me that the rejection I thought I had left behind can surface anywhere. The campaign’s orange flyers appeared suddenly, on walls and in hands. Some teachers at my university shrugged, saying protest votes were unavoidable, then changed the topic.
My frustration grew when I could not show those friendly, curious people how they were being guided. This nation’s fishers of men use the same routine every radical group prefers. Short slogans, invented statistics, and a steady supply of unease. With those tools they collect not only votes but also the public attention needed for patient work on real, often tangled problems. Some asked why I remain liberal. The reason is simple and selfish. I want to live in a world that does not restrict movement, a place where eyes follow me only out of curiosity and never out of hate. Nothing else seems worth defending. I remind myself that freedom rests on ordinary choices made every ordinary day. I count each conversation as practice for that defense, even when it ends in silence.