
AI Engineer/Japanese Language Educator
1/13/2026

Have you ever been surprised by the "silence" when riding Japanese trains?
Hundreds of people crammed into a single box, yet the space is as quiet as a funeral. When I first came to Japan, this silence frightened me terribly. "Japanese people are cold," "Everyone seems angry"—there was a time when I almost came to hate Tokyo's trains because of these thoughts.
However, an incident on a crowded train during a rainy day completely changed my perspective. It was the moment I realized that behind what I had thought was merely "forced rules," there was actually very warm "love for others" hidden beneath.
Through my experience of becoming an "invisible person" in Japan, this article will share three key points:
To those who feel constrained by Japanese rules: by the time you finish reading this article, the scenery of packed trains should look a little different to you.
When I first arrived in Japan, I firmly believed that trains were "places to chat happily with friends."
One afternoon, I was on a train with school friends, excitedly discussing weekend plans. I don't think our voices were that loud. But suddenly, I noticed the surrounding gazes piercing through me like ice-cold daggers.
Finally, an elderly man sitting in the seat in front turned toward me and made a short "tsk" sound with his tongue.
"So noisy..."
That muttered phrase froze me in place. My face burned with embarrassment and anger, and the remaining time to our destination felt like sitting on a bed of nails. I couldn't help but feel isolated, thinking "Why are Japanese people so intolerant?"
At that time, I completely failed to understand the importance of "wa" (harmony) in Japanese public spaces. In Japanese society, "maintaining harmony in the situation" takes priority over individual freedom. Especially in enclosed spaces like trains, actions that disturb others' psychological peace are strictly regarded as "meiwaku" (causing trouble). But back then, I didn't yet know the deeper meaning behind this word "meiwaku."
The turning point came during a terribly crowded morning rush hour.
I forced my way onto a packed train while wearing a large backpack. The swaying car made my footing unstable, and when the train approached a curve, my backpack was pressed hard against a woman behind me.
"Ah..."
She grimaced with a pained expression for a moment, but didn't complain at all—she just endured it silently. I missed the timing to apologize and felt overwhelmed with guilt.
That's when it happened. The businessman standing next to me smoothly repositioned his business bag to the front of his body. Then, he made himself smaller by curling up his body slightly to give me a little more space.
I was struck with realization.
He chose to make himself uncomfortable to create "space" for me, a complete stranger, and the people around us. In that moment, I painfully realized how much of a "weapon" my backpack had become for the people around me.
"It's not about following rules because they're rules. It's about preparing yourself so you don't hurt someone next to you."
The way he held his backpack in front looked like a shield protecting the people around him from an invisible wall. I was made to realize that Japanese people's "quietness" and "modesty" weren't coldness, but rather the ultimate form of "self-sacrificing kindness."
From the next day, I decided to imitate his behavior.
First, while waiting for the train on the platform, I turned my backpack around to hold it against my chest—the so-called "front carry." I also set my phone to silent mode and lowered my earphone volume one notch from usual.
Inside the train, I made an effort to behave as follows:
Then, a strange change occurred.
The "piercing stares" I had felt until then completely disappeared. I felt as if I had become part of the train's scenery.
This was different from "being ignored." It was a sense of "unity"—breathing in the same rhythm and sharing the same rules as the Japanese people around me. The moment I became an "invisible person," I felt for the first time that I had been accepted as a "member" of this strict Japanese society community.
Erasing yourself (becoming invisible) doesn't mean becoming isolated. It was the most refined form of communication—showing respect for the people around you and blending into harmony.
Now, here's some practical advice. I'll introduce a specific action list for becoming an "invisible person (= comfortable companion)" on Japanese trains.
| Action Item | NG Pattern (Causes discomfort) | OK Pattern (Maintains harmony) | Reason |
|---|---|---|---|
| How to carry luggage | Keeping large backpack on your back | Hold in front of chest or place on overhead rack | To avoid taking others' space |
| How to sit | Cross legs or spread them wide | Close knees and pull feet back | Secure aisle space and consider the person next to you |
| Near doors | Don't move despite people getting on/off | Step outside once to make way | To help smooth boarding and alighting |
| Smartphone use | Play music or videos on speaker | Silent mode + earphones | To protect silence as a "shared asset" |
Here are frequently asked questions from my students in Q&A format.
Q1: "I understand we need to be quiet, but it's okay to chat in a small voice, right?" A: Actually, even "small voices" carry surprisingly well on packed trains. Especially during commuting hours when many people are tired from work, some feel that talking itself is an "invasion of privacy." Except for emergencies, refraining from conversation is the safest and most "Japanese" consideration.
Q2: "Nobody helps me, and I feel coldly ignored" A: In Japan, "not showing interest" can sometimes mean "respecting the other person's freedom." Not staring, not talking to you—this can be interpreted as giving you the gift of "personal time."
Q3: "When I really want to offer my seat, how should I speak up?" A: The simplest way is to just say "Douzo" (Please) and stand up. If you're afraid of being refused, try leaving the spot without saying anything and moving to a different door. This way you can offer your seat without making the other person feel obligated.
Japanese trains aren't this quiet because people are cold.
It's because everyone is giving each other the gift of "tranquility called silence" for those who have lived desperately through the day and are exhausted. The shape of arms holding a backpack in front is the same "love" as gently embracing an unknown someone.
Try reframing "rules" as "wisdom to protect yourself and protect others."
Three things you can do starting today:
Why don't you try becoming an "invisible person" starting tomorrow? Beyond that silence, you should surely see the wordless warmth that Japanese people have cherished.

AI Engineer/Japanese Language Educator