The Dignity of Ambiguity

Aimai is perhaps not a word that one will come across on a daily basis in Japan, but it is certainly an important concept to understand if one hopes to make sense of Japanese society. It is most often defined as “ambiguity,” and has been called everything from a “chronic disease” (by Nobel laureate Ōe Kenzaburō, in his famous speech, “Japan, the Ambiguous, and Myself”), to a great strength of Japanese culture and character (by the philosopher Slavoj Žižek, among others). The Caribbean-born British author Caryl Phillips, who counts Japanese author Endō Shūsaku as a great influence, has stressed what he sees as the necessity of rethinking ambiguity in today’s world. As he explains it, “[T]o my mind, Endō’s great gift to his readers, Japanese or otherwise, is to dignify ambiguity. To celebrate the puzzling grey area [where] old loyalties and certainties are, in our modern world, subject to fluidity and transformation.” And I think that this is the sense in which aimai should be approached: not as a flaw or failing, but as a means of dealing with the complexities of modern life, which is rarely “black-or-white.”

Phillips’ characters, many of them caught between worlds, between Africa and the “New World”—or Endō’s, for that matter, many of whom occupy uneasy spaces between East and West, Buddhism and Christianity—are forced to confront the realities of life in such a “grey area,” and many of them come up wanting. But how might we try to think about the positive aspects, about the “dignity of ambiguity,”to which Phillips alludes in his praise of Endō? I think this can be best approached as an indirect, even delicate, way of communication that is easily on display in Japan any time a person is singled out, asked to state an opinion, take a firm stance or otherwise make a commitment in some straightforward way.

For someone like me—raised in a highly opinionated society (and family), who finds himself teaching English language, composition and literature here—it can be extremely frustrating to get anyone to state, directly and plainly, his or her true feelings on anything. And the temptation (which I have seen many foreign visitors fall prey to, time and again) to conclude, as a result of the silence or floundering that normally follows a direct question, that people here have no opinions on anything, are completely apathetic, or somehow dishonest is all-too-great—and terribly misleading. It would be much more productive to attempt to understand the positive aspects of this indirect form of communication, and to try and engage what Phillips has in mind concerning its “dignity.”

Endō is as good a place as any to begin. After all, his entire body of work (except perhaps for the more light-hearted reportage and humorous work that has, for the most part, not yet been translated into English) deals with this question: the ill-fitting “suit” of Western (or, in his case, Christian) “clothes” that the Japanese have been forced to wear, as he often phrased it, since the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry’s “black ships.” This was a favorite metaphor of his—certainly an echo of the well-known “Western Technology, Eastern Spirit” dichotomy dating back at least to the Meiji Era—as was the image of the “mud swamp” of Japan, taking in various outside influences, yet twisting and transforming them, in some cases killing them, before allowing them to flourish. In Endō’s opinion, Christianity was a foreign concept that never truly took root in Japan, and must somehow be adapted to local conditions if it ever hopes to succeed.

At any rate, the problem that Endō put his finger on—the long history of cultural, religious, political, even linguistic adaptation and hybridity in Japan—seems to me to be directly linked to the “problem” of ambiguity (I write “problem” because it is very much at the heart of the controversy whether or not this is a strength or weakness of Japanese culture). Japanese identity is fluid and subject to change, despite what conservative politicians and pundits have to say on the matter. As the language itself has undergone enormous transformation since the Meiji Era, so has the very notion of what it means to be Japanese. Yet this very flexibility, which allows for cultural adaptation and rapid change, can lead to an identity crisis. After all, how can one state what one believes, if one does not know who one really is? Perhaps this sort of soul-searching (or lack thereof) is, at least in part, what forces individual expression to become such an agonizing ordeal in Japan. Identities, beliefs, and opinions seem to be extremely fluid, and tailored to fit the immediate situation or surroundings.

Now, concerning identity, two related concepts might be of some use. The first is Sekentei, and the second is Shūdan Ishiki. Sekentei is a bit more difficult to translate, I think, but we could perhaps try “reputation,” “propriety,” or even “appearance in the eyes of others.” Shūdan Ishiki is “group consciousness.” Both are crucial to the understanding of Japanese sociality and communication—especially when it comes to expressing personal opinions in what outside observers would consider a “straightforward” manner.

You see, it is certainly not the case that Japanese people are somehow bereft of individuality or opinions. Rather, from what I have seen, the fact is that they have been conditioned to restrain themselves and either defer to their elders or “superiors” (say, their teachers); or to wait and see what the larger group decides is the consensual stance on the matter; or even to remain silent and not say anything at all for fear that they might somehow be incorrect. Questions without clear-cut, right-or-wrong answers are most uncomfortable in Japan. This is one reason, I believe, why quiz shows featuring multiple-choice questions are so prolific on television, and why we rarely encounter open-ended questions that probe the grey area that Phillips had mentioned.

However, this is not to say that avoiding either controversy or strong opinion is a bad thing. In this society, people tend to weigh their words very carefully, and use them sparingly, for fear of upsetting others or somehow incurring disapproval, and this leads to a more harmonious (for lack of a better word, and at the risk of indulging in cliché) environment. “The eyes of others” or the “harmony” of the group certainly have their negative aspects, and it is very easy for an outsider like me to write rather dispassionately about them like this, but, reservations aside, they do exhibit a positive influence at times. Such times include when a more flexible, tolerant and situational (case-by-case, as many Japanese people will say) moral sensibility is called for, to take one example, or, to take another, when a person who has somehow erred asks to be re-admitted to the fold.

In both cases, Japanese society seems to me to be much more accepting of human frailty and tolerant of grey areas or ambiguities than, say, American society. Of course, this can be both good and bad; but in today’s world, where intolerance and fanaticism are increasingly on the rise, I think it is refreshing and potentially liberating to follow the Japanese example and explore the positive aspects—the dignity—of ambiguity.