Matigo dot See, eh?

Eighty-five days have passed since my family left and everything points to several hundred days more before any decision involving visitation rights with my son or custody of my dog will be made. As one would expect, the house has been a very different place these past weeks. Gone is the barely constrained commotion of raising a child and the joy that comes from their play. Outdoor exercise is still part of the daily schedule, but Nozomi is not here to enjoy the nearby parks. What was once a home has become an abode of solitude.

The LORD God said, "It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him."
– Genesis 2:18

There is a lot to be said for living independently. Being able to effectively look after oneself and all of the accompanying responsibilities means that a person has their house in order. Between the summer of 1999 and 2007, I managed to survive just fine while living solo. There were certainly a number of trails and tribulations that had to be overcome, but it was not an impossible feat thanks to the remarkably safe world we live in¹. One of the biggest challenges of the time, though, was staving off loneliness.

The spring of 2000 was the first time I truly felt lonely. I had been living on my own in town for almost a year by this point, and worked at a company that also employed my step-father. Every couple of weekends I would be invited to stop by for dinner and spend time with my mother and four of my seven siblings². In addition to this, I would drive an hour south to visit my father and step-mother once every month or so. My days were filled with interaction, and yet I felt alone. As a 21 year-old "man"³, it was obvious to everyone that what I was looking for was a mate.

In time, one found me. We had a short, platonic relationship that came to an end before Christmas that same year. Looking back today, I think it would be fair to say that I was better friends with the woman's father than I was with her. An unfortunate consequence of being young and stupid. However, this brief connection taught me a great deal about myself and the things that needed correction before trying again.

Four years later I was living on the other side of Canada and had become a little more responsible. The financial situation was not particularly great, given how expensive life on the west coast of the country can be, but things were looking better. I had a good-paying job, a growing list of responsibilities, and people around me expected a great deal. Thanks to the efforts of friends and colleagues, I started to show signs of becoming a mature adult. There were invitations to important meetings, fancy dinners, events at the mosque⁴, and more. However, just like before – and despite all the people, I started to feel alone.

Some friends noticed and would introduce me to women they knew, but none of the young ladies I met seemed right. They were generally pleasant to talk to, conservative, and soft-spoken. What I wanted, though, was to find was someone with spark. Someone who would challenge me in unexpected ways.

In October of 2004, I found that person and fell madly for her. The next ten months witnessed some of the most exhilarating, terrifying, and heartbreaking moments of my life. Never before had I felt so high. Never before had I felt so low. As one would expect, I discovered a lot about myself and about relationships. The lessons were some of the hardest learned up until that point and I'm still thankful they happened.

Just a few months later, though, the irrepressible desire to be with someone returned. This wasn't out of lust or some desire for intimacy, but a longing to find "the one" … if such a person can be found at all. In January of 2006, Reiko came into my life. In April of 2022 she left.

Several weeks ago I was asked when I might consider meeting someone new. The reasoning behind the question was that a 43 year old man is still young enough to help create and raise children. My answer was a non-committal "It's too soon for me to think about that" yet, in reality, it's all I seem to be thinking about lately. Why, though? Not three months have passed since I lost my entire family⁵ in one fell swoop. I'm not yet divorced. I'm not yet able to mask the sadness I feel when I walk into my son's room every morning to open the windows, then again in the evening to close them. There is no guarantee that I can even afford a relationship that involves children going forward, as there has been no discussion with Reiko regarding child support payments. For all I know, I'll need to work two jobs just to get by. There's simply no way to know at this point in time.

Yet a little voice in the back of my mind, one that sounds very much like my conscience, is telling me:

Then God blessed them, and God said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves on the earth."
– Genesis 1:28

The first part is easy. Being fruitful means being useful; having a job, doing good things, and being a respectable member of the community. Multiplying, though … that should not be toyed with.

When I was a child there were always some kids in my class that came from a large family. By Canadian standards in the 80s, this would mean any household with more than four children. Often times these families were poor and would look forward to the child support benefits⁶ handed out by the government every month in order to put food on the table. A household with five or six kids under the age of 13 could expect about the same amount a person working a full-time job at a department store would receive. The common pattern seen here would be that the father would work, the mother would stay home to deal with the half-dozen children of varying ages, and the bank would see deposits that resembled a family where both parents worked. It was not an easy life, but it certainly lived up to the first part of God's blessing.

However, by the time these kids reached middle school, the two-income homes had often morphed into "single mother homes". The child support benefits were reduced every few years as kids grew up (and became more expensive) and the single parent would be forced to find work somewhere in town during the day while their many children were at school. Household chores would often go undone as there was never enough time or energy. Lunchboxes would consist of crackers with cheese, a juice box, and perhaps a sandwich. The kids were often hungry, unkempt, and – when mixed with the onset of puberty – increasingly aggressive.

This is something that I had witnessed numerous times while attending public school in Canada and it has certainly affected the way I approach the matter of raising children. I have already failed my son by not being mentally strong enough to weather another two decades with his mother. How can I possibly think about having more? Particularly now when the future is still so unknown?⁷

Sometimes I wonder if this is a test. Since the boy has come along I've made a conscious effort to be a more responsible person; someone who thinks before they act. There are still a number of areas that I need to work on to become a better person, but I'm closer to my ideal today than I was in 2017. If I give in to the voice, will it prove that I am still an irresponsible person who focuses more on the desires of the present than the needs of the future? Or is this a genuine message that, despite the pain of separation, insists I follow one of the oldest prescriptions in recorded history?

As with so many of the questions I've struggled with in recent months, I simply do not know.

1. Canada is many things, but it is not a violent place. So long as you're not going out to intentionally provoke people or Mother Nature, then you will have some semblance of security, no matter how far down the social hierarchy you may find yourself … an I was pretty darn low for a while.

2. Both parents remarried, so there was a combination of families. I remained the oldest, however.

3. Unless someone has survived something truly horrific, any person under the age of 25 is still very much a child; full of potential and naiveté.

4. It was around this time in my life when I studied Islam. I spent a great deal of time studying when not at work.

5. Yes, I have parents, sisters, brothers, cousins, nieces, and nephews in Canada. Hundreds of relatives. But none are on this side of the planet. For all intents and purposes, Reiko, the boy, and Nozomi were my whole family.

6. Commonly called "Baby Bonus"

7. The future is always unknown, but I've yet to make the decision as to whether I stay in Japan or not.

Despite living in my house since April of 2018, the yard was not completed until the end of May last year. There are a number of reasons for this, but the core issue really came down to time; there was never enough to properly work out which trees would be planted and where, and how much of the yard would be covered by grass. Prior to having plant-life, the house was surrounded primarily by hard dirt and garden stone. The property looked respectable despite its incomplete state, and this was in no small part due to the effort put into pulling weeds every weekend. Undeterred by the desert-like appearance, some wildlife had started to take notice of the arid space, and a pair of long-tailed lizards could be seen on sunny days. They would find a place in the middle of the yard or on the concrete blocks that formed the lower-half of the fence and sit nearly motionless for hours at a time.

Later, when the parched soil had been replaced with greenery, the lizards could still be found. As before, they might stretch their bodies and incredibly long tails on the concrete section of the fence but, more often than not, they could be found enjoying some peace under one of the many dwarf conifers that dot the property.

At some point in the last few months, a third lizard has made itself known. To the best of my knowledge, the three keep to themselves. One stays near the front door. Another is along the southern fence. The newest, and most patient¹, enjoys the raised soil area behind the parking space. Not being an expert in lizards – or in any kind of life, really – I cannot guess as to whether the three are related.

As silly as it may seem, I like that these Japanese grass lizards are able to call parts of the yard outside home. It means that this property, perhaps small by human standards, is large enough and flourishing enough to offer these creatures enough comfort and food to enjoy their brief existence. The daytime temperatures this summer are hovering just under 40˚C with forecasters warning of a brutal July and August. This weekend I'll aim to add a small pool to the yard so that these lizards, and other small animals, can enjoy a brief respite from the heat. Hopefully it will be enough.

1. This third lizard seems not to mind when I come within a metre. It even seemed a little curious about the camera while I was taking pictures, lifting its head as though to get a better view of the lens.

This past April my mother and I started having weekly phone calls. Every Saturday night at 10 o'clock I give her a call and we chat about recent events or whatever happens to be on our mind. It's something that I should have been doing for decades and even said as much on our first call. However, this is yet another one of those instances where "better late than never" is true; no matter how many years have passed since the last call, it's (almost) never too late to pick up the phone and reach out.

Yesterday one of the first questions that my mum asked was "How are you doing?". An innocuous inquiry that people will use to allow someone else to offer the initial conversation topics. My reply was quick and to the point: I'm feeling great. Better than I have in years. Maybe I should be sent to prison more often so that I can appreciate just how good people have it on the outside. Injecting a bit of humour into the start of a conversation generally creates for a more relaxed atmosphere, but the answer is wholly accurate. Despite the various struggles that can face a person at the start of divorce proceedings, I have enjoyed the past week immensely and feel pretty good. Aside from a 15 ~ 20-minute period of negativity on Thursday or Friday, my outlook on life has been remarkably positive. The 20 days of detention were certainly stressful and humbling, but the genuine appreciation I feel for my current freedom is absolutely refreshing. It will not be taken for granted.

So, with this in mind, on to the five things.

Hindsight on Dreams

During the final nights of detention, I would occasionally dream of returning home, only to wake up either as I read the front door or when I get to the mailbox just outside the front gate. Rather than see the inside of the house, I would see the inside of my cell. This was incredibly disheartening as I considered it a sign that I would never again return home. In hindsight, however, could this have been a vision of the future?

Dreams that repeat have often held a special meaning for people. In the Bible, the Egyptian pharaoh who released Jacob from prison did so after having his dream interpreted as a message that there would be seven years of bounty followed by seven years of drought. Thanks to the insight from Jacob, the people of Egypt and neighbouring territories were spared starvation¹. Even today, there are numerous intellectuals who pay attention to the messages contained in dreams; particularly those that repeat.

Looking back at these unconscious visions, I do wonder if the dreams were trying to say "You will return home, but not just yet." This would certainly explain why I would wake up shortly before walking into the front door².

Why Am I Here?

One of the questions that I've been thinking about since returning home regards my purpose in life. This isn't so much a "why do I exist?" sort of question, but more of a "what am I expected to do now that I have been gifted with a return to society?"³. There are a number of possible answers that have emerged from the recesses of my mind, and they all follow a common theme, namely …

Interacting With People

For the better part of four years I have been unable to interact with people outside the house in any meaningful manner. On April 12th, the family and I moved into this home and almost immediately became disconnected from the rest of the world. We would occasionally meet extended family, and I would have an opportunity to chat with neighbours while outside with Nozomi, but the interactions were always time constrained. However, as I am no longer expected to be a constant presence in people's lives, it has become possible to rekindle old relationships and also to build new ones. While I certainly lean towards introversion, there is something uniquely rewarding about meeting people, sharing ideas, and learning new things. This interaction also extends to calling family members more often, which has made it possible to learn about the people I grew up with but know almost nothing about⁴.

Re-Reading Important Books

Reading has been one of my favourite pastimes ever since I borrowed my first book from the library⁵ at the age of six. Over the last few years I've been reading books from people like Dennis Prager, Jordan Peterson, Bishop Robert Barron, and others. These books cover important and complicated topics and have helped guide me to be the person I am today. By going over these books again, there's an opportunity to appraise the decisions I've made, recognise what worked, learn from the errors, and re-examine the lessons to see whether they apply or not⁶. First were the two Rational Bible books from Dennis Prager, and I'm now in the middle of Jordan Peterson's first 12 Rules for Life book.

My goal is to continue reading books from people who are smarter than I will ever be in order to make fewer mistakes going forward. After reading the books that already exist in my library, I'll being expanding the pool of authors to better grasp the world we live in. I needn't agree with everything, but I do need to understand more perspectives in order to build a …

Plan for the Future

A number of people are strongly encouraging me to return to Canada. I still have responsibilities to tend to here in Japan but, depending on the final terms of the divorce, remaining half a world away from the nearest family member (that I'm allowed to see) seems illogical. My employer has been incredibly understanding and patient with me over the years but, as the global economy continues its downward spiral, they may need to downsize further⁷ in order to survive. If this happens, then I will need to act quickly in order to continue paying the mortgage, the bills, and everything else that creditors or society demands. So it is with this in mind that I am trying to collaborate with people to develop financially viable – not to mention ethical – software and services. There are four projects being discussed, all of which have potential. If just one proves to be somewhat successful, then it will become possible to pay the bills while also having the freedom to work from anywhere on the globe. It's a long-shot, but not completely outside the realm of possibility.

This past week has been incredibly productive with a lot of good communication with great people. Despite the challenges earlier this month, I feel positive and incredibly fortunate. So it is with this energy that I hope to transform the potential for good into something that is good. Given the patterns that are present in my life recently, this will not be a solo effort. There will be interaction. There will be communication. There will be learning. There will be disagreement. However, when it's all said and done, something truly interesting will have been discovered.

1. This is a gross oversimplification of the story, but the gist is mostly there.

2. What's odd is that my dreams had me walk towards the front door. I never use the front door unless with Reiko or the boy. If it's just me, I enter and exit the house from the side door connected to my home office. However, when I returned home on June 15th, I did use the front door. This was because there were three other people with me; two police officers and an interpreter. Entering through the side door would have been awkward as there wouldn't be enough space for everyone's shoes. Did the dream contain all of this information? Or was it just a figment of a depressed imagination?

3. Yes. I see my return home as a gift.

4. More than fifteen years have passed since I've seen most of the people in my family. People can change quite a bit in this time. My sisters have been mothers for most if not all of this time, and raising multiple children will change a person. It's good to have an opportunity to learn about them again, even if it's just over the phone.

5. The first book I borrowed was "Mr. Bounce", a short story written by Roger Hargreaves. It was borrowed from the library at the elementary school I attended in 1985. The things we remember …

6. There is no book that I read and agree with 100%. The things I disagree with, however, are often topics that I think a great deal about afterwards to articulate why there is a disagreement. A rational approach to reading and introspection makes it possible to better develop the self, after all.

7. There have been a number of downsizing efforts over the last year or so thanks to COVID, but it's gotten to the point where the next round of people will be those who cost the most and generate the least amount of income. The software I write now is not used by students or teachers, so the value I offer may not be worth the salary in the eyes of management.

Try to make one room in your house as beautiful as possible.
– Dr. Jordan B. Peterson

The spaces that we spend the most time in tend to get messy rather quickly. We're usually bringing more things in than we take out and we're generally bad at dedicating time at regular intervals to organise and clean the area. For most people, this is just the way the world works. In my case, I tend to like things to be organised in such a way that I never have to ask "Where is X?", because X has its own spot and only leaves that location when I am actively doing something with X. That said, it would be terribly misleading to say that I didn't also suffer from the accumulation of stuff over time in the spaces where I spend most of my days. The home office is a perfect example of this.

Having the privilege of working from my house means that I could, if so tempted to, wear my pyjamas all day long, eat meals in front of the keyboard, and generally life in front of the computers. So much of what I like to do involves typing on a keyboard, and so much of what I'm paid to do requires the same set of tools. If I were to spend as many as sixteen¹ hours a day in the same general space, that location would quickly become a mess. Rings from the coffee cup would form on the desk. Pages from the notepad would be torn out and stacked nearby to be put into recycling the next time I stand. A plate from a meal might be left because an idea captured my attention while eating. In no time at all, the office area would come to look very "lived in".

However, I do not do any of these things. I tend to wear proper clothing when sitting at the desk. Meals are consumed in the dining area next to the kitchen. Papers to be recycled are tossed in the plastic bin almost immediately. And the place where I keep my coffee cup and glass of water is always free from the rings that signify spillage. The home office is where I generally create things, which means that mess cannot be tolerated. Items must be in their proper place. Dust and other dirt must be cleaned at least once a week. By sticking to a routine, my workspace can look like this most of the time:

This is how I like to start my working day as it means there is no time wasted looking for hints of ideas that were paused the day before. The paper notepad contains a list of open tasks that must be tended to and the desk itself is ready for whatever I might do next, regardless of whether I need to use the keyboard or touchpad.

The space is functional. Things are laid out efficiently. But is it beautiful?

Two decades ago I would have thought this a gorgeous working space. The lack of disruptive wiring alone makes this a distinct improvement over a lot of the places I've worked over the years. However, the space tires me out after just six or seven hours every day. Just because a space is functional and efficient does not mean it's beautiful. What this place is missing is "life".

Up until a few months ago, this working space had photos and hand-drawn pictures all along the wall. This introduced colour and uniqueness to the space, making it possible to look away from the monitors and instead see a photo of a family member or something they had created with pencils and crayons. This would allow me to remember the story that describes the picture and enjoy the human moment that was captured. I miss the stories.

One of the rules from Jordan Peterson's famous Quora answer told us to make one room as beautiful as possible, and it's a good rule. Beauty inspires us to action. So, with this in mind, some new photos will be put up on the wall over the coming weeks. I'll find some of the better shots of the boy and Nozomi, print them out on some photo paper, then mount them to the wall with some adhesive boarding. A similar thing will be done in other rooms around the house as well. Because while it's true that this place is generally clean and organised, it's also monochromatic. Having some vivid imagery of the family during happier times will go a long way to making the house feel more like a home, even though it's just me here.

1. I don't spend 16 hours in my home office. That would be excessive and unhealthy. That said, I do generally spend about 12 hours a day, five days a week in front of a computer.

During the last two days of interrogations at the police station, I was asked a number of questions that did not seem to be directly related to the case, but were instead used to better understand my thought process. One that came up multiple times was about the lack of aggressiveness during the three weeks of detention: "How come you don't get angry at any of my questions? If I were in your position, I would be pounding the table and shouting. You've been very calm for most of our discussions. It's almost like you're not defending yourself."

The investigator was quite right regarding the lack of anger and frustration that was shown during the questions. Given the seriousness of the allegations, most people would probably gesticulate wildly during questioning while also raising their voice as the consequences of a possible guilty verdict becomes more clear. However, this didn't seem like a logical thing for me to do, and I said as much.

What value is my anger or frustration in this situation?

As one would expect, I was incredibly angry and frustrated at times during the 20-day detainment. Who wouldn't be? I was angry that I couldn't contact anybody. I was frustrated with the lack of things to think about. I was angry with some of the questions that were asked. I was frustrated with how repetitive many of the days were. What kept me balanced was what – and who – I wasn't angry at. At no time during my captivity was I angry at Reiko or the boy. I understood why I was arrested and it made perfect sense. As a result, the actions I had to follow were very clear.

I will be patient, respectful, and honest. Anything else is just unnecessary noise.

Like a lot of people, I was rather quick to anger as a teenager. Something would upset me and I would go off on a tangent, shouting expletives and stomping my feet like a fool. Not once did these rages result in a satisfactory solution. If anything, these outbursts pushed the people I cared about away. Who wants to be around an angry grouch, after all? So it was with great effort that I learned how to control and channel rage. By my late 20s, I'd become so adept at redirecting or burying anger that people would sometimes ask if I ever got angry. This control of emotion eventually went further so that I could mask just about anything, allowing me to present a calm and respectful demeanour under most circumstances. This was incredibly important during the last half of my marriage, too. While frustration would escape from time to time, my emotions could be "paused", making it possible for me to deal with them at a later time.

This is what I did in my cell when nobody was watching. However, even there, the anger and frustration did not come out in any obvious manner. I would walk around the cramped quarters, bouncing my shoulder against the concrete walls just for some sort of physical contact with the world while also making sure that there was just enough force used to create a bruise. In the mind's eye, every interaction was like a transfer of raw emotion from my upper arm to the building itself. In time the intensity would dissipate and I could go back to reading or running an imaginary coffee shop. The bruises that developed would heal after an evening or two.

One of the things that I've learned over the last four or five years is how to complain. Or, more accurately, when to complain and what to complain about and why I am complaining. For the vast majority of the problems I face, it makes little sense to communicate them to others unless I need help with a solution. For everything else, nobody cares.

There were a hundred things I could have complained about at the detention centre, but none would have resulted in changes. It's a jail, not a hotel.

There were a number of problems that I had with the way questions were asked in a manner to test a person's honesty, but complaining would not have resulted in better questions.

The prosecutor really got under my skin a couple of times, questioning my faith and intelligence as though I were less than human. Would complaining about this have resulted in a better dialogue during his questioning? Not in the least. Knowing him, it would have encouraged further line-crossing.

As one would expect, there were many what's to complain about, but never any when. Nobody would have cared. These were my problems, nobody else's. As a person in custody – as someone suspected of doing evil – there was no reason for anybody to accommodate my wishes. So, why engage in a senseless activity?

Being angry would have gotten me nowhere. Being frustrated would have gotten me nowhere. Acting on emotion would have gotten me nowhere. Complaining would have gotten me nowhere. Doing any of these would have likely resulted in the same consequences I faced as an angry teen. So, with this in mind, all I could do was to be patient, respectful, and honest. Anything else would have been unnecessary noise.

In 1955 The Righteous Brothers lamented that "time goes by so slowly", a concept that has eluded me since high school when it seemed that everything was getting faster with each passing week. The flow of time also increased noticeably when the boy learned how to play. Up until my 43rd birthday an entire week could pass by in what felt like a handful of hours, leaving me to wonder when I might find the time to complete the various projects I had committed to. However, after the family split on April 8th it seemed as though every day contained 30 hours. Then, by the end of last weekend, a single day seemed to contain enough hours to fill a week.

“When you sit with a nice girl for two hours you think it’s only a minute, but when you sit on a hot stove for a minute you think it’s two hours. That’s relativity.”
– Albert Einstein (or Helen Dukas¹)

One of the oddities that I noticed after returning home from jail last Wednesday was a lack of time perception. We all recognise the feeling of watching a clock and thinking that the second hand has come to a stop or is moving backwards, but this is something I've yet to feel in my house. Over the next few days, time did seem to accelerate again, but it has yet to return to a state where a single day feels like a 24 or 30-hour period. Our perception of time is certainly relative, as the famous quote from Einstein reveals, and this has me wonder whether a person is more productive when time seems to drag on forever.

In March I felt that there was never enough time in the day. I would sit in front of my computer for 10 hours, invest an hour for Nozomi, three hours for the boy, two hours as a family, two hours for whatever demanded attention, then six hours for sleep. However, the days never seemed productive enough. By the end of the evening, I would check in my work for the day job and wonder if the things I just handed in actually needed 10 hours to complete. Now, though, I seem to complete everything I had planned to work on plus a number of additional tasks before lunchtime, then wonder what to do for the rest of the day.

A quick check of reality shows that there are still 24 hours in every day, with each hour consisting of 60 minutes. So how is it that I seem to be so productive now while each minute feels interminable?

The only thing I can think of is that there's less to think about. After Reiko left with our son and Nozomi there was a lot less to occupy my mind. I could focus on communicating with lawyers and neighbours, filling out paperwork, planning for the future, and more. Later, while sitting in a jail cell with little more to do aside from breathe at regular intervals, there was even less going on in the head. Indeed, by the end I was engaged only in a single thought at a time. This allowed for a degree of attention that was once impossible given the myriad of distractions that we all contend with on a daily basis. Gone were the electronic devices. Gone were the other voices. Gone were the colours of objects² within view. This level of focus is not the same as one might experience when sitting with a loved one or absorbed in an activity, where time moves at a rate far faster than we perceive. Instead it's more like a Zen state; inner peace and calm while engaged in a single effort.

The price paid for this insight has been incredibly high but, if this tranquility can be honed and maintained, I wonder if the endless races against the clock that once defined my days and weeks can remain a thing of the past.

1. This was Einstein's intermediary, and was likely the person who communicated this idea to the reporters who would often ask questions about relativity.

2. The cells I resided in were not monochromatic, but they may as well have been.

Between May 26th and June 15th of this year it was necessary for me to answer to two names; the one my parents gifted me with at birth and another that was assigned when I entered into the detention centre at the police station. My designation was 29番¹ and it was the only way people could refer to me while in the jail. We were not supposed to share our real names with guards or other detainees. Most of us have been called far worse things throughout life, but there's something utterly dehumanising about being referred to as a number; as though we are no more significant than cattle.

Perhaps this is the point.

When a person is detained and stripped of the freedoms afforded by society, are they any more important to the outside world than a cow that grazes in the field? We are permitted the basic necessities of life², a shared newspaper, a handful of minutes to groom ourselves, and a shower twice a week. Time spent in the cell can be passed by reading a book, writing³, sleeping, walking in circles, staring out a mostly-obscured window or – as I quickly discovered – spending exorbitant amounts of time in your head. Anyone who has spent more than five minutes watching primates within a cage at a zoo would find it interesting that humans will often do the same things as the great apes and orangutans might in order to get through the day.

The numbers people are assigned are handed out sequentially and, because they are relatively low, reset at regular intervals. The lowest number was #14, assigned to an elderly gentleman who I shared a cell with for the last five days of my detention, and the highest was #32, assigned to a man of few words. Knowing a person's number would give you some indication of how much time had passed since they last enjoyed the freedoms that so many of us take for granted, but asking directly was frowned upon. Still, I would occasionally think about the men who had been placed in captivity before me and wonder how they maintained their sanity given the lack of stimulus that was permitted. The old man would devour books. One would write a letter to a different person every day. Yet another would sit with this back against the wall and just stare into space. Everyone had their preferred way of passing the time.

When I was first placed in a cell, I had no idea what to do. There was a mostly-blocked window that I could stare through to examine the sky and power lines, or stand on tip-toe to see the tops of trees and buildings. When my muscles were tight from a lack of activity, I would walk in circles around the cell. Three times counter-clockwise, bouncing my right shoulder against the concrete walls as I went, then three times clockwise, bouncing the left shoulder against the same walls, then repeat. Later I would read books. Finally, to break the monotony, I would retreat into imagination where I ran a coffee shop that served good drinks and excellent sandwiches.

The books were a good distraction at first, but there seemed to be a theme of misery within the library. Only four books were available in English: Flowers for Algernon, Memory Police, Run, Melos!, and Animal Farm. I had read Flowers for Algernon in high school and couldn't read it again while detained as it was just … depressing. Memory Police started out as being interesting, but went in a direction that I really disliked and eventually ended with a depressing non-ending. Run, Melos! was a collection of short stories that had been translated into English with the most common theme being people who hated themselves despite all the good that surrounded them. So it is probably no surprise that I decided to borrow Animal Farm for the greatest amount of time, reading through the story at least twenty times in all simply to occupy the mind with something that wasn't related to the remarkable amount of loss that I was trying to ignore⁴. However, one can only compare George Orwell's "fairy story" to North Korea so many times before the tale becomes wearisome. So, as I was in desperate need of something to do, I created a job for myself.

Something I have always wanted to do is open a coffee shop. In my mind, I built a small cafe for a small town in Southern Ontario. The place was called "Jason's Signature Coffee", which had my signature – J²fi in a cursive script – on the cups. The place sold good coffee, healthy sandwiches, and all-natural juices. For breakfast there were yogurt cups that came with a small package of granola. At lunch there were various sandwiches, made with fresh-baked bread from the kitchen. In the winter people could also enjoy a hardy stew or chilli in a bread bowl. Connected to the coffee shop was a small classroom where I would teach kids how to program Lego robots and, when not tending to either the shop or the school, I would sponsor youth sports clubs and enjoy watching some games. It was a very busy place and there was always something to take care of.

The original concept started to take shape somewhere around Day 10 of my detention. Based on the comments and signals I was reading from the police officer and the prosecutor in charge of investigating the case, all signs were pointing to a five-year stay at a labour camp followed by a deportation. I needed something happy. I needed something to look forward to. This entrepreneurial enterprise was the best I could come up with, and it sustained me for a week. Various problems would be imagined, such as running out of bread at lunchtime or dealing with a break-in that emptied the classroom of all its Lego and supporting tech, and solutions would be played out. A number of "What If …?" scenarios played out in this fantasy town, including one where I met someone and considered starting a relationship. All in all, it was an excellent way to distract myself. Anyone who can see that a positive future awaits is in a better position than someone who is depressed.

Unfortunately, the fantasies would always end the same way: "Number 29; it's time to eat." A guard would interrupt my train of thought to let me know that it was either noon or 5:00pm; time for a meal.

Jason's Signature Coffee is one of the few positive memories I have of my time in a Japanese detention centre. It was an escape that allowed me to feel purpose. It was an exercise that allowed me to examine a possible future. It was an opportunity to possess a name that people could call me by.

My name is Jason. Not a number.

1. Pronounced "ni-juu kyuu ban", meaning "Number 29".

2. This would include food, clothing, and shelter.

3. All writing had to be readable by the staff so, if I were to write anything in English, I would need to pay to have it translated so that the warden and guards could make sure it didn't contain anything that should remain within the confines of the detention centre. Suffice it to say, I did not write anything as I was not keen on spending untold sums of cash on translations.

4. In the space of two months I managed to lose my wife, son, dog, and freedom. This was compounded by the fear of losing my job, house, and financial security going forward.

On Thursday May 26th at 8:00am sharp, my life came to a very sudden halt. At the front gate to my home stood 9 police officers, armed with a search warrant, cameras, boxes, and the authority to take anything that might be of interest from my house. I had just stepped out of the shower when the buzzer told me of their arrival. Naked and completely unprepared, I asked them to give me a moment while I quickly dried off and put some clothes on. A moment later, I opened the front door to be presented with the warrant and allowed them to enter the house without complaint.

Yes, this actually happened. And, after the investigators had collected everything on their list, they asked that I travel with them to the police station to answer some questions. There was no arrest warrant presented, but it was clear that my best interests would be served by getting into their van.

For almost three weeks, I did not see the horizon.

On the twentieth day, I had given up any hope of getting out of jail before 2027. Based on everything I had heard and everything I had seen, 90 days of detention followed by an all-too-predictable court case¹ would have resulted in me being moved to a labour prison where I would spend my days on an assembly line making things that nobody wanted. My proclamations of innocence appeared to go unheard because they didn't line up with the details that I had slowly learned about during the course of the interrogations.

Yet here I am, sitting in my home, almost 60 hours after being released back into the world.

It still doesn't seem real. I want to write about the experience. I want to put pen to paper and explore why I had slowly given up all hope of returning to society before my 48th birthday. Yet the words fail to materialise. The question I struggle with is how to communicate the experience. Do I write chronologically? Do I write in blocks of topics, examining the interrogations, the detention centre, my cellmate, and other aspects of imprisonment as single items spanning a period of time? Do I write about how I spent my isolation when not answering questions or reenacting events for an audience of investigators? Do I write about the tears I hid from almost everybody as I thought about my son growing up and saying "My dad's in jail" every time someone asked about his father?

There are a number of half-scribbled notes on a pad of paper that I keep near the computer that contains some of the details that will likely slip my mind as the memories begin to fade. Notes about the food, the four English books available to read, the professionalism of the officers, the prosecutor, the handcuffs, the things I thought about to pass the time while stuck in a cell that measured 15m²; 20% of which was used by the semi-concealed toilet area. When it comes to preparedness, these sheets have me covered for at least 10,000 words worth of blog posts … or even a book written in a first-person narrative. Yet it's difficult to know how to approach the subject.

The last few nights in the detention centre were incredibly long. Lights are out at 9:00pm and they don't come back on for ten hours. Detainees are expected to remain lying down this entire time unless using the toilet. As I had nothing better to do, I'd often fall asleep by 8:15 and wake again after six hours so that I could examine the concrete wall nearest my nose while the old man behind me snored up a storm.

During the brief periods of REM sleep, I would dream about returning home. A dream on Day 17 involved standing at a bus stop waiting for a vehicle that never came. The timetable always showed the next bus to be five minutes away. On Day 18 I dreamed about walking from the detention centre to my home, a trek of 18.3km that I know rather well because I've travelled the actual roads for 15 years. As I approached the front gate and checked my mail, I reached into my pocket for the keys and … woke up to see a concrete wall less than 30cm from my face. On Day 19 – the last day of interrogations – it was much the same; I couldn't go home.

Day 20 was hard. This was the last day the police could hold me. One of two things were going to happen:

1. They would find they had enough evidence between the testimony and DNA samples to indict me, resulting in another arrest warrant being issued where I would then stay in the detention centre until my court date 6 ~ 8 weeks in the future
2. They would release me

Everything I had been told by the prosecutor and the lead investigator had me believe the first was the most likely case. My prayers to God would go unheeded, likely because my ego needed to be humbled. My house would be seized by the bank for failure to pay the mortgage. My job would be lost. Everything I had worked so hard to earn or build since moving to Japan in 2007 would be gone, with the added insult of being deported from the country at the end of my sentence²; penniless and utterly unprepared for whatever future might await.

As with the previous nights, I woke around 2 o'clock in the morning to see the scratched up concrete wall I would lean against during the day. The prayer I had said thousands of times during detention started looping through my head:

Lord, please grant me the strength, the courage, the patience, and the humility to accept these coming years.

I thought of my son, who would live into the 22nd century thinking I was a horrible person. I thought of my dog, who would likely pass away before I would see a horizon again. I thought of my father, who might also pass away before I could return. I thought of Reiko. I thought of my mother. I thought of the extreme isolation of being so far from anyone who might be able to help or, at the very least, pay me a visit.

In addition to the prayer for strength and courage, I would often say another one when standing at the barred-off window that allowed me to see little more than power lines and sky:

Lord, please allow me to leave this place and return to my home.

But something in me died that morning. Just like anyone who has spent time in a prison, I wanted to leave and return to my home. I wanted out. But I no longer felt I was going to get out. I lost hope. I lost confidence. I had to accept that the coming years were no longer in my control. This decade would be remembered as replacing one tyranny with another.

The prosecutor had the final say as to whether I would be indicted or not, and he was a tough man. His stare could freeze stars. In his office I had seen a calendar with details about my case, and on June 15th – the last day of my detention – there was a note to make a final decision in the afternoon. Based on what the officers and inmates at the detention centre said, a fax would likely be received mid-afternoon to announce my fate.

At 10:20am, the warden approached my cell: "Number 29. You're being moved."

My heart sank. They said I was being moved, which means the prefectural prison had enough space for someone to await their court date. I would be driven from the quiet detention centre at the police station and brought to a place with hundreds of men who would likely laugh at a broken white guy who rarely speaks except to say "I didn't do it."

The cell door was opened. I returned my blankets to the closet and gave one of the guards the styrofoam cup I had been using for three weeks. From there I was lead to the room where people are frisked and then put into handcuffs before transportation.

Except the room was laid out differently. Rather than seeing a mat on the floor with feet spread wide for people to stand on while being checked for contraband, a bench was pulled out from the wall and all of the clothing and belongings I had come to the prison with were laid out.

"Where am I going?" I asked.

"We can't tell you."

"Why are my clothes here? I'm going to another prison, aren't I? Where are the handcuffs?" I looked around and didn't see the metal detector wand or the specific set of restraints that the guards had dedicated for my use.

"You'll find out soon enough. Please sit down."

Two guards then went through a binder containing an inventory of everything I had handed over when I was first brought into the detention centre. My jeans, shirts, belt, watch, wallet, money … everything. Then I was asked to change out of my prison garb and put on my clothing.

You sick fucking bastards, I thought. You'll have me dress in clothes I wore as a free man to transfer to another prison, where they'll be stripped off me so that I wear somebody else's underwear yet again.

Never once in my twenty days of detention did I exercise my right to remain silent. Nor did I ever refuse to cooperate with a warden, guard, or police officer. These people were in charge of my life and, if I made too much of a fuss, it would only hurt my chances of early release. So, keeping my thoughts private, I got dressed.

Mere seconds after I finished putting on my shoes, the warden came into the room and held up a piece of paper loaded with complex Japanese characters:

"This is for you. Jason Irwin, as of 10:48am on June 15, 2022, you are released from detention and free to go."

I didn't know how to respond, so I asked the first thing that came to my head: "This is a dream, isn't it? I'm dreaming. I'll get to my home and then wake up in my cell again."

The warden shook his head. "No, you're free to go. There are some officers in the police station who you need to talk to, and then you can go home."

…

Is this how I should write? Narrative? In the first-person? This would allow for an exploration of thoughts as well as what happened in the real world, but I wonder if it makes sense on a blog. On this blog.

The twenty days of detention have changed how I think about things. Time moves differently. Sound is different. I pay much more attention to what people say when they communicate with me. I still feel broken, as though I lack the confidence to venture very far beyond the confines of my very, very, very large house. But each day brings another opportunity to try and reclaim some semblance of normalcy. On Wednesday, just a few hours after I was dropped off at my home, a neighbour from across the street stopped by with some snacks and asked if I was okay. She had been outside when the police had escorted me to their van so she knew what was going on. Yesterday I went to the nearby convenience store to pay a bill. Today I took a bus to city hall to pay some overdue taxes. Tomorrow I will venture into the big city to meet a friend for coffee.

As a free man.

As a normal man.

As a man who has no idea how to write about these twenty days of scrutiny and confinement.

But maybe this post can be a start.

1. Japan has a 99% conviction rate, which is pretty much unheard of in the western world. If you go to court in Japan as a defendant, you're pretty much doomed.

2. Although I have a permanent residence visa in Japan, being in prison for more than 365 days would result in a revocation of the privilege and a forced deportation back to Canada.

Two weeks ago Reiko stopped by to pick up "a few remaining things" and wound up grabbing far more than was implied. I was out for the morning to meet with a friend in town and figured my absence would give her the chance to collect the last of her clothing as well as some of the things I had packed up for her that she might need, such as an expired passport, the batteries and charger for the DSLR camera she took, the DVR with all of her recorded TV shows, and the like. When I returned home mid-afternoon I discovered that she didn't come alone, but brought her parents and sister to help out. Everything that could be taken was grabbed. Dishes, silverware, curtains, my medical and taxation records, Nozomi's medical records, plus any last reminders of the boy. It was a wholly vindictive ploy. I spoke with the lawyers about the legality of taking all of my paperwork in addition to already grabbing the title to the house and other legal ID during the first "house cleaning", and they shrugged their shoulders as if to say "What are you going to do? Have her arrested for theft?"

The thought did cross my mind, but it would require me to stoop to her level. The last thing I want to do to our son is to have him witness his parents wielding the law at each other. Instead I did the next best thing; I jumped online and bought some new locks for the doors.

When Reiko first left the house, she kept the keys which I foolishly assumed would be used responsibly. However, when I returned home two weeks ago to discover a mostly empty home, I was reminded of the time my home was robbed in Southern Ontario. Upon returning home on that day 21 years ago, a police officer escorted me into the basement apartment to ask what might have been taken. I walked around and pointed out what was missing, including a few bottles of beer from the fridge, and asked if there was any chance that anything might be returned. The officer shook her head and said that it almost never happened because anything of value would be sold within hours and tracing ownership back to me would be darn near impossible for anything that wasn't one-of-a-kind. After the officer left and my landlord came home to find that his place was also stripped of some items, I drove to the nearby Home Depot to get some replacement locks for the door.

This is what I did two weeks ago as well.

Door locks in Japan are a bit more door-specific than the ones I was familiar with in Canada, but one shop a couple of prefectures over offered to sell me the sets that fit my doors. $200 later, they were ordered and I was left to play the waiting game, wondering every time I went out whether there might be an unannounced visit. Fortunately there hasn't been a repeat of two weeks ago and today, after waiting two weeks for the locks to arrive, I was able to quickly dismantle the doors, switch the tumblers, and get everything re-assembled.

This is what peace of mind looks like for the back door, which leads into my home office.

With the locks changed, I now have one less thing to worry about when I go out for a walk or to meet with people. There is still a risk of break and entry, of course, but that is something that lawyers will not shrug off as a "mild consequence of divorce"¹. It's unfortunate that this was necessary at all, but such is life.

Over the coming weeks I will continue to petition for my paperwork and access to the bank accounts in my name. I'll also aim to regain the title to the house as I'm the one paying the mortgage. Bringing Nozomi back is another priority and, if at all possible, some visitation rights with the boy … even if it's supervised visitation to ensure I don't try and leave the country with him².

With any luck, I'll look back at these first few months of separation as a time of mild frustration that ended with an amicable agreement with Reiko. This is highly unlikely, but anything is possible.

1. If they do, I'll find some new lawyers.

2. Kidnapping is quite common with international divorces, I'm told. Not sure how I could smuggle the kid out of the country without anyone knowing ahead of time that it was happening, though. I don't have a private jet, let alone one that can cross an ocean.

Over the last couple of decades there has been a concerted effort to rewrite entire swaths of history to fit various objectives and agendas. This generally starts by examining an event completely outside of context and adding a great deal of hyperbole that is passed off as "fact", followed by mob rule attacks on the subject, followed by a retelling of events to suit the needs of those who believe they've been aggrieved. This sort of activity is often seen during and after wars as various groups seek to claim power of some sort. A family member recently asked if I would go back through the posts on this site to remove any reference of being married, effectively masking the whole reason I moved to Japan. According to their logic, doing this would allow me to "reframe" my purpose for leaving Canada and setting down roots on the other side of the planet.

In other words, would I lie in order to hide the fact that I was once married? Would I "cancel" Reiko?

The question struck me as odd, given the fact that there are plenty of other posts on this website that should probably be deleted if I wish to avoid the wrath of a history-diving activist. What possible value would removing a few hundred posts featuring my ex-wife have? She and I were married. Despite the stress, anxiety, anger, and hurt that was inflicted over the years, we had a lot of really good times together. It's because of these good times that I remained by her side for nearly 14 years of marriage. Removing her means ignoring the happy times. It means removing any posts featuring our son. Going further, it could mean removing any posts about Nozomi, as she was initially adopted into the family to offer Reiko some company in an otherwise empty house while I was working 30+ kilometres away in Tokyo.

No. There will be no rewrite; no purge of posts that might show that the early years of marriage had more ups recorded than downs. Marriage allowed me to mature into an adult. It allowed me to put someone else, and later several someones, ahead of my own wants and needs. The story of who I am today would be wholly incomplete without making reference to the responsibilities that I voluntarily accepted. John Donne said it best almost 400 years ago: No man is an island.

Some people do find it therapeutic to delete or destroy photos, burn cards, and toss possessions after a break-up, but I do not. What happened happened. Nothing will change this. By leaving the posts in place and publicly accessible, I am sharing with the world a piece of my history. More importantly, by leaving the posts in place and publicly accessible, I'm showing the world that I am not projecting a manufactured image. What you read is what I am. There are minimal filters in place to ensure things remain clean and family friendly, and that's it.

People don't visit websites like this one for fictional accounts of events.