The subway doors slid open and passengers poured in, filling every seat in a flurry.
Well, almost every seat.
As usual, people avoided the empty place beside me as if it were cordoned off with crime scene tape. I tried to ignore both the people and the seat itself. But just then, a little girl, maybe four or five, spotted the seat and made a dash for it, her face innocent and excited. Just as she was about to sit, her mother yanked her back, hissing “abunai!”
The girl, rattled by her mother’s panic, scanned the area for danger. She hadn’t seen any — until her eyes found me.
At first, she stared curiously, without fear. Then her mother took her chin, turned her head away, frowned, and said “Da-me!” In the daughter’s final glance over her shoulder, I saw recognition forming. She might never sit next to a foreigner and never even question why.
Far too often — on trains, buses, in cafés, waiting areas, or any shared space — the seat beside the conspicuous foreigner remains empty. Black or White, old or young, male or female, plump or thin — it doesn’t matter. Some variation of this happens so often in Japan that foreigners gave it a name.
When I arrived in 2004 and began noticing it, I asked around and learned terms like “Gaijin Seat” and “Gaijin Bubble.” But when I started writing about it in 2008, I ditched those terms. “Gaijin Seat” sounded like priority seating for special guests, not the COVID-style social distancing it really was. So I called it the Empty Seat Phenomenon, a name that spotlights the behavior and the gap and centers the experience, not the blame. And since “gaijin” itself can feel like a slur to some, using it in the label only made readers defensive.
I also learned that most Japanese people aren’t aware of this issue, so they have no way of knowing that to conspicuous foreigners, the empty seat is something we must make peace with before deciding if we can call Japan home. Because the emptiness is impossible to ignore.
Avoiding foreigners in this way — whether consciously or instinctually — has consequences. Some of us spend years developing ways to live with it or work around it.
The responses to this behavior vary widely, as do the survival tactics. Here are some of the approaches. For the record, I’ve survived each of the following coping mechanisms, and then some, over the past 20 years.:
1. The “Shouganai / C’est la vie” Approach
A recent informal survey of conspicuous foreigners revealed that the most common response to the empty seat is resignation and acceptance. It’s as if some foreigners tell themselves, “So, you wanted to live in Japan? Well, THIS is Japan. Love it, or leave it!” In other words, since you’ve chosen to live in Japan, like it or not, you must accept Japanese judgment.
“I accept it as it is, and most of the time I don’t want to sit too close to anyone anyway.” — 50, Male, USA, Nakano, 9 years
“I’ve grown into that ‘Japanese mentality’ of avoidance.” — 62, Male, Yokohama Daito, 45 years
“I’m resigned to it now. Japanese people don’t want to change — it’s their problem, not mine.” — 46, Female, New Zealand, Kanto, 9 years
“It made me see that Japan is for the Japanese and foreigners are only here to fill the labour gap.” — 40s, Female, Jamaica, Hiroshima, 5 years
2. The “Shielded by Sadness” Approach
Another common response is to build a kind of emotional shield. For many foreigners, over time, the sting fades, but the sadness and frustration never go away. It becomes a sort of dark routine, like being bullied with no recourse.
“I've pretty much gotten used to it. But it still stings.” — 44, Male, Caribbean, Ibaraki, 16 years
“At first, I thought it was a coincidence. Then I realized it wasn’t. That realization was painful.” — 34, Female, USA, Fukuoka, 6 years
“It’s both sad and pathetic that people feel threatened by a tiny, 156cm tall 52-year-old woman.” — 52, Female, USA, Tokyo, 33 years
“I used to feel sad, but now I don’t notice it.” — 40s, Female, Eastern Europe, Kansai, 8 years
3. The “Surprise in Disguise” Approach
Some foreigners get proactive and try to head it off before it even happens. Some even use camouflage and props. I know, because in my early years here, I confess, I did it myself.
I used to stage fake phone calls in Japanese while waiting in line for the train. I got pretty good at it, too! I also wore business suits I didn’t need, fake eyeglasses to look harmless, and bought Japanese newspapers as props. I figured if Japanese people feared foreigners because of English, danger, or unpredictability (as I’d been told by some Japanese friends), maybe I could disarm some of that fear by looking like a gainfully employed, Japanese-speaking, non-threatening non-Japanese.
And sometimes it worked!
I could see people visibly relax when they overheard the Japanese phrases I’d rehearsed all night or saw me scanning a newspaper column, unaware I couldn’t read it if my life depended on it.
But this absurdity taught me a hard truth: using camouflage and props might win you a few nods and fill a few empty seats, but they eat away at your soul. Once you start disguising yourself to make others comfortable, it gnaws at how you see yourself.
The empty seat is more than just empty. It’s a mirror.
4. The “I’m Nobody’s Victim” Approach
Some foreigners take a different tack. Instead of disguise, they reach for bravado or humor — a defensive posture that turns rejection into empowerment.
I had one friend, an American, who laughed at me when I first began writing publicly about the Empty Seat Phenomenon. He mocked me with effeminate nicknames and told me I was weak for caring what Japanese people think. His approach was bold. He imagined himself as some sort of daimyo, with Japanese passengers reduced to peasants. In his mind, their evasiveness was in deference to his power.
At the time, I thought he’d lost his mind. But in hindsight, I saw what he was doing: he refused to let others write his narrative. He lived in Japan on his own terms.
The image of him riding the Chūō Line like a warlord was ridiculous and would make me laugh til I cried sometimes — and that was the point. Humor, especially satire, takes the sting out of humiliation.
Others echoed this spirit:
“Hurray, more space for me.” — Mid-40s, Female, UK, Tokyo, 15 years
“Honestly, I love it. I wasn’t gonna interact with the person next to me anyway.” — 36, Male, USA (half Black/Japanese), Tokyo, 10 years
“The empty seat doesn’t bother me. Compared to labour exploitation or housing discrimination, it has had next to no effect on my life.” — Mid-40s, female, British, Tokyo, 15 years.
For many conspicuous foreigners, these coping mechanisms become an essential part of daily life. But what about the other side of the seat? We also asked Japanese people to share their perspectives on the empty seat phenomenon, and their responses revealed a variety of perspectives.
Some admitted hesitation:
"It's probably because Japanese people are often seen as country bumpkins. Another reason is their tendency to stick together with people just like them."— 63, Female, Fukuoka, Translator/Writer
Some were blunt:
"I don't like sitting next to foreigners on the train because they're too big, they feel cramped, and their body odor is bothersome. I just want to sit comfortably."— 61, Female, Tokyo, Interpreter
Others offered reflection:
"After reading columns by the author, I've come to a deeper realization of how much stress and pain our unintentional actions, driven by 'misunderstandings,' can cause for people around us."— Anonymous
One Japanese respondent offered a detailed reflection on how unfamiliar appearances can trigger avoidance.
"I believe people avoid sitting next to someone with an unfamiliar appearance because their brains perceive them as "other," which generates negative assumptions and a desire to avoid them."
She explained that repeated exposure — even to differences in skin color or body size — helps the brain stop generating negative assumptions.
She also noted how easily minorities are labeled when one person causes trouble, and how this creates pressure to constantly earn trust.
"I feel that minorities are constantly forced to make an effort to build trust with the people around them. It's exhausting and makes life difficult, but I get the sense that this is simply the reality of the situation."— Female, Tokyo, Company Employee
These Japanese voices show that the empty seat is not invisible. Just their acknowledgment of it feels like a step in the right direction.
In conclusion, I want to say to the Japanese person ignoring the empty seat, the choice you’re making may feel small. But, to the foreigner sitting beside it, your choice feels like a verdict. And that verdict stays with us. It forces us to invent ways to cope. It makes us explain the experience to ourselves in different ways, just to get through the day.
That is the impact.
That is why it matters.
I’ve lived in Japan for 20 years. In that time, I’ve gone through every stage: convinced myself the empty seat is a form of politeness, shrugged it off, laughed about it, cosplayed as the ideal gaijin, and even imagined I was a daimyo like my friend once. You name it, I've tried it. But after struggling through numerous coping mechanisms, I settled on the one I employ to this day: I purge myself by writing.
The empty seat was the topic of my first viral blog post in 2008, as well as the theme of my best-selling debut memoir. It helped me find my voice and jump-started the writing career I’ve built in Japan. I’ve made a provisional ally out of the empty seat.
So sit, or don’t sit. That choice is, of course, yours. But please understand: Even when no one says a single word aloud, the empty seat always has something to say.
