In this abridged extract from the book, Daniel tells the story of a Japanese researcher who sets out to measure loneliness while drawing on her own experience of autism. We meet Kana as she prepares to move from Utsunomiya, the town where she grew up, to the island community of Okinawa, where she will finish her thesis on loneliness.
By Daniel Tammet
Author
HifuMiyo
Illustrator
Introduction
Dear Ms Seiko Noda, Minister of Loneliness.
So began the letter Kana had spent several days writing in her head (horizontally, and left to right, the letter being in English, the language she preferred to think in) and continued, after the necessary preliminaries:
“I applaud your ministry’s recent creation and its aim to tackle the spiralling problem of loneliness in the country.
“On the government’s website, I notice that it does not mention who might be more vulnerable to loneliness. Research has shown that ‘disabled’ people can be lonelier than ‘non-disabled’, autistic people particularly so. Autistic people do not ‘have a disability’, but they are ‘disabled’ when others around them do not understand their differently wired minds nor accommodate for their needs.
“Making accommodations confers on them no additional merits, but simply permits them to be on a level playing field with everyone else.
“A lack of understanding from others leads to loneliness, just as much as the absence of social relationships. Addressing this would go a long way towards alleviating loneliness in the nation. This could include diminishing the stigma around autism in Japan and bringing the correct knowledge of autism and autistic loneliness to the wider society…”
Moving day
Where was she now? Nowhere. In the no-woman’s land between sleep and waking. She opened her eyes, looked up at the ceiling, down at Sky. No, wait, that was impossible. Sky was in heaven. She closed tight and then opened her eyes again, and saw Levi.
The schnauzer puppy wagged her white tail as Kana hauled herself out of bed. As always, she was up with the first pink of dawn and the city’s sparrows she heard from her window as they balanced on the telephone wires, chirping.
As she looked out, she remembered that in her dream she’d been a mouse, a dancing mouse in a circus. She recalled distinctly her scurrying to reach the mouse troupe from which she had been separated for some unknown reason. Scurrying, her mouse’s heart hammering, because the troupe would be waiting to start. They would not start their dancing without her.
Slippers padded along the corridor, a soft tap at the door preceded its opening, and her mother smiled into the bedroom.
“The tea’s ready,” Hiromi said.
Despite her time in America, and many months in Britain, Kana still took her tea green. No milk or sugar.
On her way to the kitchen she passed through the living room. Long and wide as six tatami mats, the room seemed more spacious since she and Hiromi had finished packing most of their belongings into boxes. It was September 2021, and they were leaving the mainland and their home of 30 years, Utsunomiya, for Okinawa.
They were moving to an apartment near the American Village and the harbour, and counting down the days until their departure. They would take a taxi to the airport, saying a last goodbye to the paddies, cornfields and orchards whose changes rang in the seasons. Farewell to the mountain views and the smell of cows through the car windows as they drove.
Thirty years of life slimmed down to a dozen or so boxes.
“A lack of understanding from others leads to loneliness, just as much as the absence of social relationships.”
Hiromi was a single parent, Kana an only child. There was hardly anything, or anyone, to keep them here. Kana’s father, who had left their lives years ago, was helping to pay for the move. Her mother, a make-up artist turned aesthetician, would find new clients on the island.
The two women sat down to breakfast: bagels for Kana, and amazaki, a fermented rice drink, for Hiromi. They hadn’t yet packed away their chairs and table.
“A writer contacted me the other day about a book he’s working on,” said Kana. “A British man living in Paris.” She was familiar with his work. She gave his name in Japanese for her mother’s benefit: Danieru Tametto.
What sort of books had this Tametto-san written, Hiromi was curious to know, and why was he contacting her. “Is it something to do with your research?”
Kana flushed; she nodded.
‘Research’ was the kind of word that sounded fine when she said it but pretentious when others did. She was 27 years old, and while she felt strongly about her work, she was the last person who would ever make a fuss about it. Which was why the enquiries from this British writer, like those from the American reporter before him, had been as big a surprise to her as they were to her mother. A reassurance, too, that she really might be on to something.
Ways to Measure Loneliness
She was a researcher in loneliness. She measured and dissected it with considerable zeal, even passion, because it was a young field of research, fast-expanding, increasingly vital, and also because she had often known first-hand the ache of feeling alone.
If anyone – the British writer or the American reporter or someone else – were to ask her how she measured a thing like loneliness, she could answer: the same way you measure the wind. By its observable effects on our world. You could identify and grade the various forms of loneliness, just like we identify and grade a dozen kinds of wind – running from light air and fresh breeze to gale and hurricane.
‘0’ – Contentment – being wholly at ease in the world. . .
‘3’ – Mild isolation – aloneness is noticed regularly, living and work spaces seem excessively large.
‘4’ – Moderate isolation – aloneness is unpleasant, like body odour; days feel very long. . .
‘6’ – Estrangement – sense of not belonging, being unlike others; connection is difficult. . .
‘8’ – Severe exclusion – sensation of being cut off from others by an invisible wall. . .
‘10’ – Forsakenness – empties life of meaning; all possibility of connection seems lost.
Daughter and mother spent the rest of breakfast talking about Kana’s research. “I know how important this is to you,” Hiromi said. “Your life’s work.”
✲
Kana had hoped to become a full-time researcher in psychology or, possibly, a clinical counsellor – self-employed, ideally – and in the autumn of 2021, as she and her mother packed up their lives, she still did. But first she had to wrap up her thesis; she’d do that in Okinawa now.
Bagel eaten, tea drunk, teeth and hair brushed, she returned to her room to perform some ballet stretches in front of the mirror. Still good for time before her day began. Levi knew to wait for her walk.
How much she aspired to resemble at all times this Kana in the mirror, who seemed so elegant in her gestures and in all her steps so sure-footed.
She stared up at the electronic clock display on her desk as she arched her back one last time and touched her toes. Wait two more minutes and the time will show prime numbers: 07:57, 07:58, 07:59. Now. She came out of her stretch, fetched the dog lead and walked her puppy out into the street.
This time next week, she said inwardly, she, her mom and Levi would be in Okinawa. She gazed up at the many telephone wires as they crisscrossed the horizon.
“Okinawans have a one-word philosophy: yuimaru. It isn’t a Japanese word; it is Okinawa dialect for ‘looking out for one another’.”
A Prickling pain
Kana found it nearly impossible to discuss kodoku, loneliness.
Her mom, she knew, had to feel lonely sometimes. When does that happen? she would have liked to ask her mom, but never dared. How long does the feeling last? What makes it better or worse? These were questions she was always asking in her research. Another was: what words would you use to describe your loneliness?
Mother and daughter were sharing one of their last suppers in Utsunomiya when Kana asked this question under cover of a word game. She was thinking of a certain category of words in Japanese, onomatopoeic, that evoke sensations and states of mind. Kura kura, for example, a sound associated with giddiness; zuki zuki, with painful throbbing.
Kana put down her chopsticks and said, “When I think of feeling lonely, I think of the word buru buru. It sounds just like the feeling, don’t you think?”
“Buru buru?” Hiromi had finished her gyoza dumpling. “Yes, I suppose. Yes, I can see that.”
The sound usually described someone trembling – trembling from the cold or fright.
“Like not having the warmth of someone close to you,” Hiromi pursued. “Or feeling afraid on account of being on your own.”
“Yes, exactly.” And seeing her chance, Kana went on, “And with what sound do you associate feeling lonely?”
Hiromi’s face turned thoughtful.
“Chiku chiku,” she said at last.
It was a sound used to refer to a prickling pain.
Was it precisely this pain, chiku chiku, that her mother had felt during Kana’s years abroad?
An Island Culture of Caring
Okinawa. Even in November the air was several degrees warmer than on the mainland. Beyond Hiromi and Kana’s new apartment, palm trees threw their spiky shade onto the footpaths, and the sandy beach stretched out forever. Flags drowsed on their poles when the weather was calm, and the musical drawl of the locals carried far and wide.
The move, like most house moves, had been tense and draining. But each of the boxes had landed on the island, and then reached Chatan, beside the American Village, in one piece. Kana’s Bible and photo album and ballet clothes and research folders promptly made themselves at home, divvying up between them the best spots around the bare shelves and drawers and wardrobe.
Not long afterwards, Kana heard that her research on loneliness was going to appear in a scientific journal in the spring. She spent sunny weeks walking Levi by the sea as she imagined other researchers discovering her work in print. Who knew to where their comments and feedback might yet take her thoughts?
When the journal article appeared, Kana emailed the British writer, who replied with congratulations and the news that his narrative about her was almost there. He just needed to study up a bit on Okinawa.
✲
For centuries the Okinawans traded with the mainland, China and other lands in East and Southeast Asia. Even as Japan isolated itself from the world, goods and peoples and traditions continued to meet and mix on the annexed island. The Shoguns neglected the islanders, world war devastated them, but their culture of welcome and inclusion survived.
The Okinawans are easy-going; their lives are slower than those on the mainland, more relaxed, and very long. They have a one-word philosophy: yuimaru. It isn’t a Japanese word; it is Okinawa dialect for “looking out for one another”.
A newcomer to the island will be asked, more than once, if any help is required. An islander not seen for a day or two will be checked on. And at the approach of a typhoon, the Okinawans do more than batten down the hatches. They share their homes and food with neighbours as everyone waits for the storm to pass.
Originally published by Wellcome Collection, 08.06.2024, under the terms of Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.
