The most important feature of the self in Japan is its dissolution into the group, as many scholars from various disciplines have pointed out. We are clearly reminded here of the ancient Buddhist and Confucian concepts of losing one's identity by merging with the larger entity through enlightenment. But the most significant point is that dissolution of the self is essentially an act of will—of self-control and self-discipline—that is, the quality control of individual emotions.
Japan is a "blend" society. Just as barley loses its original nature when each grain is blended to make whiskey, so the blending and dissolution of each individual in Japanese society produces a new social energy and activity. The Japanese are perhaps the most successful people in the world when it comes to working in groups. This remarkable cohesion accounts for Japan's ability to reach a high level of industrialization in such a short time and, more recently, to survive the oil crisis. The reverse side of the coin—the price of strong cohesion—is of course the weakness of individual development that is often cited by foreign observers.
In contrast, in the West the self endeavors to survive on its own, even though it participates in the larger group. Here the self is like a single tile in a mosaic. In a mosaic composition, various shades of blue tiles are grouped together to create the sky; many different shades of red tiles are arranged to depict a red robe. Each tile retains its unique shape and color while forming part of the whole. So it is in the West. Each individual lives by emphasizing and expressing his uniqueness within the social order. The self is not lost. This is what I call the "mosaic" society.
Of course, there are good and bad mosaics, and there are social groups that function well and those that function poorly. The same can be said for blends of whiskey and people. Daniel Bell and Ezra F. Vogel, in their article "The Possibility of Japan" (published in the Asahi Evening News), coined the terms "sand society" and "clay society." The former refers to Western societies that have little coherence and that place strong emphasis on individualism. The latter refers to Japan's extremely cohesive social composition. This interesting distinction resembles the division into "mosaic" and "blend" societies I have described above.
Many foreigners complain that no matter how long they live in Japan they are never really accepted by the Japanese and never admitted into the society. This may be partly due to the insularity of the Japanese, who have lived as a homogeneous island nation for centuries. But it is not simply a matter of exclusivity or xenophobia. Rather, especially from the viewpoint of the Japanese, it is a problem of blending. The assumption that foreigners can never truly blend in may derive from the fact that in a group of black-haired people, someone with brown hair simply does not fit in.
On a more meaningful level, someone who has a firm notion of self, with all the logical implications that such a notion entails, cannot be expected to lose that self and enter into the group-oriented Japanese society, which is governed not by logic but by the social principles of giri (mutual duty) and ninjo (human feeling). If that alien element were to take root in Japanese society, its cohesion could only suffer. Another factor may be the sympathy of the Japanese for a foreigner, their reluctance to force the outsider to give up his individual identity in order to blend into Japanese society. Thus the foreigner is forever treated as a guest, with all the etiquette that is demanded when greeting and entertaining a visitor from afar.
Very few Japanese believe that foreigners should be absorbed into Japanese society, at the cost of their individualism.
Again, this is not due to an ill-natured xenophobia. Here, by the way, let me add a note about the term gaijin (outsider, foreigner), an abbreviation for the longer gaikokujin (person from another country). Unlike the English term "Jap," gaijin is definitely not a term of insult. The English "Jap" can be traced back to the wartime animosity between the two countries and is perhaps equivalent to the Japanese keto (literally, "hairy Chinese"—a disparaging term applied to the Chinese and later to all foreigners).
The ancient name for Japan is Yamato, meaning "Great Harmony," and as already stated the highest social ideal of the Japanese people is wa (harmonious concord). The following is an example of how the principle of harmony governs a modern samurai's behavior. It is a testimony by a member of one of the top-level companies in Japan:
"During inventory there was a great deal of work to be done, and I worked overtime for several days, even on the weekends. After it eased off a bit, I decided to take a day off that was owed me. But while at home, I felt very uneasy because I was away from the company. Still, it would have looked silly for me to show up when I had taken the day off. I invented some lame excuse and made a telephone call to the company, but there didn't seem to be anything special requiring my attention. That evening, I went to the station to buy the evening paper, and I bumped right into a horde of office workers coming out of the ticket gate on their way home from work. When I saw them, I suddenly felt as if I had done something wrong that day, and I couldn't get away from the guilty feeling all night."
This is the conscience of the well-blended individual, of the self that has been harmonized into Japanese society. I call such a diligent worker a "modern samurai" because he devotes himself wholeheartedly to his employer and always puts his official duty first—much as the samurai devoted themselves to their lord in the Tokugawa period. What this story reveals is not exactly the "shame" that Ruth Benedict discusses in her book The Chrysanthemum and the Sword, but rather a sense of guilt. In any case, in Japan both shame and guilt are derived from the same root—heteronomy, or lack of personal freedom.
"Not for Myself”
There are scandals in Japan as in any human society, and those involving corrupt relations between the public and private sectors are particularly reprehensible. But one thing is different in Japan. In every case, those implicated in the scandals feel compelled to profess their selfless motives. After they have testified before the committee, or finished an investigative session with the authorities, and face questions at the inevitable press interview, they all pull themselves up proudly and deliver the same line: "Nothing I did was for personal gain. It was not for myself."
The Japanese claim they did what they had to do for the sake of the company or the party. They say that they had no choice but to act as they did—it was a matter of survival. The executive director of one trading company, who was implicated in an aircraft scandal, committed suicide and left a note which read, in part, "It wasn't me." If it wasn't him, we may ask, why did he find it necessary to take his own life? The indirect answer is to be found in another part of that note: "The company is eternal." It is almost as if loyalty to the company made any consideration of personal blame irrelevant, even inconceivable. The director's "self" was dissolved into the eternal company.
The other day, a letter entitled "An Upsetting Interview" appeared in a local newspaper. In it, a college student described what happened to a friend of his who had taken the entrance test for employment at a bank in his hometown. The bank interviewer was openly rude to the applicant: "Well, you were certainly lucky to get into college for someone who graduated from X high school. Hmmm. It looks like all your school courses are in law and government. Certainly nothing here is related to banking." The student was indignant at the way his friend was treated. But what interested me most was the following remark: "My friend was very angry at being treated in this way, and was about to reply in the same tone, but checked himself. He thought of all the future graduates of his high school who might someday want to apply for a job at this bank, and decided not to answer back but instead to put up with the treatment he was receiving." This concern for "the future graduates" transcended momentary personal considerations.