The train I boarded was packed, probably the first one to arrive at our station after the incident. It made me wonder if the engineer of our train had witnessed the entire event. Did they relieve him immediately and take him to counseling? Was he still driving our train? What was going through his head? Will he be forever traumatized?
I alighted at Nishi Kokubunji to transfer to the Chuo Line only to learn that there had been another "Passenger Injury" on that line, causing a delay of 15 minutes. I picked up an official "excused tardy" slip from the train officials handing them out by the hundreds, and then changed my mind. At that point I called the school, rescheduled my appointment, and returned home.
"Passenger Injury." I hate that phrase. It turns a tragic reality into a mere inconvenience - business-as-usual. With almost mind numbing regularity it has become a kosher way to place emotional distance between the horrific ending of a life and the stoic hearts and minds of the masses of people commuting to work. And it's becoming increasingly common. My friend Faith posted on Facebook the other day: "For the third time in four days my train travels are off schedule because of suicides. The conflict between frustration because it's interrupted my schedule and grief because of the hopelessness that this demonstrates is unsettling."
Having grown up in the Japan in which you could set your watch by the trains, the increasing frequency of train suicides has not only been an adjustment in terms of commuting, but it has also rudely awakened me to the increasing prevalence and depth of hopelessness. Suicide isn't "an issue" in Japan; it's a daily reality.