I cannot independently verify this, and I don't know if it's true. But when I was still a student at my community college in Southern California, a manager at the restaurant I worked at told me that 80 percent of people would steal if they knew they could get away with it.
The number itself was never backed up by any scientific evidence, but the sentiment was later substantiated during my time as a support technician for a security camera company. Crimes like theft are less likely to happen when people know they are being watched.
It makes you wonder—are people really that despicable? A few American proverbs come to mind when I think about theft back home. If a person was negligent or simply forgot something on a train or in a taxi, the response was "Oh, you can kiss that goodbye." And the thief might mutter "Finders keepers" to themselves as they get away.
Is there a culture around stealing in the United States that I was missing all these years?
The Noble Thief
Thinking back, I remember stories like Robin Hood, the noble thief who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Stories of the southern outlaw Jesse James and his gang, romanticized as a rebel still fighting the Yanks. The stories we grew up with like The Godfather and the Corleones—glamorized criminals. The Walter White antihero who sold meth for his family. All of them ignoring the simple fact that these people, real and otherwise, had egos bigger than their shame.
The thing is, I can see it. I rooted for those characters, too. They are people sticking it to a system that has failed its own. A system that at one point people believed in and had faith in, but as time goes on it becomes clearer and clearer that the system is being exploited and desecrated by those in control of it.
Maybe therein lies the romance. Jesse James, reflecting the longing of the Confederacy. Vito Corleone, reflecting the necessity of protecting his people from those who excluded and exploited them—stealing rugs from the wealthy, eliminating Don Fanucci who preyed on his own neighborhood, building a system of power for a community that the legitimate system locked out. Walter White, failed by a healthcare system that wouldn't cover out-of-network doctors or experimental treatments, even though he was a model citizen who followed all the rules.
The choices these characters made are things real people relate to, because a system screwing over its people has always been there. Whether it was fiefdoms over-taxing farmers during the medieval period and exploiting workers, or today, where taxpayer money funds meaningless wars while people are starving, sick, and struggling to make ends meet in the wealthiest country in the world.
I get it.
But to the characters themselves, that sympathy is just sentiment. The criminals don't actually carry the meaning that the public projects onto them. The people behind the crimes do not care about you or me. They see their publicity as a means to justify hurting people. The audience becomes the excuse—the story they tell themselves to make the taking feel righteous. Of course, they'd still rather not be caught in the act. The nobility is for the legend; the dark is for the work.
People still forget that even when the motives are noble, even when the crime benefits the people around the criminal, it still ends in decay. Their victims are still people. They are sacrificing the public rather than for the public.
Vito went from stealing rugs and building a system of power for his people to his son laundering money through the Vatican and having his own family members killed—all in one generation. Jesse James still killed unarmed civilians. And Walter White? Where do we even start with him?
The legends of these characters may have inspired people to commit crimes thinking the consequences would stay hidden, almost as if they would inherit the same public sympathies. But what trickled down wasn't the nobility. It was just the taking—without any thought about who they were taking from. Everyone becomes the enemy in this mode of thinking.
An executive who sells their positions before a damning announcement isn't a smart businessman. They are stealing from people who trust them. The people stealing packages aren't hurting Bezos or Amazon—they are taking a toy from a child. A thief stealing cash from a commuter on a train is robbing someone's livelihood. They are taking advantage of a tired person.
I knew a guy in high school who was a notorious prankster. He egged and TP'd houses, among other things. His most scandalous prank was to go to houses, access their power breakers, and switch them off. I asked him one question that made him give it up: What if the target house had a person on life support inside? What then?
There is no glory in crime, because the victims are still people. I think if more folks actually thought about what happens to their victims, that made-up 80 percent number would drop to 10. No one is inherently evil, and most people care about others. They just need a reason to remember it.
Lost and Found in Japan
There are countless stories of people losing their items in Japan and getting those same items back intact. I have anecdotes for days, but one stands out. The one that inspired this post.
My family and I went to a large outlet mall. Typical day—very busy, a lot of foot traffic. I have a very young daughter, and she is the light of my life. We went to Lindt, the chocolate store. My wife was shopping for chocolate with her friend, and I was hanging out with my daughter in the café seating area. It was a part of the store that was relatively empty. I put my bag in the basket under one of the chairs.
I had a very delicious mocha chocolate milk. I played with my daughter, socialized with my wife and her friend, and we decided to leave. This was the early afternoon. We left the shop and returned home after dropping my wife's friend off at the station. Two packages from Amazon had arrived—a much-anticipated solar panel and a new ergonomic office chair meant to alleviate my neck pain and upgrade my gaming setup. I was excited to see the packages and went straight to setting up the chair and playing with my new toy.
I did not notice that my bag was missing until the next morning when I was on my way to work.
Inside the bag: my driver's licenses (both California and Japan), all of my credit cards, all of my bank cards, my My Number card, my zairyu card (the card with my visa information), my passport, my hanko (a personal seal similar to an official signature), ¥5,000, and my allergy medicines. Basically my entire identity was inside that bag—forgotten at Lindt, underneath the chair, inside a black basket.
I was freaking out, running through scenarios in my mind about what could happen and what I would need to do if I couldn't find any of my things.
On my way to work, while my wife was driving—safety first—I called the mall. To my surprise, they had a "For English, press 2." Pressed 2. "Thank you for calling. An SMS has been sent to your phone. Please read the SMS—" *hangs up* Ugh. Useless. I called them again, expecting them to say it was before working hours. This time I stayed on the line and chose the Japanese option. There was an option for lost items. I pressed it. Then they told me they would send me an SMS in Japanese.
Bruh.
Whatever. I followed their link, and it pointed me to a service called finds.co.jp. I filled out their form and was informed that security would check the tickets from 9:00 AM and process them as they were received. I did all this at 7:30 AM. Aside from the birth of my child, it was the longest two hours of my life. Just before I had to go to my first class for the day, I got a message from the outlet mall saying they had found a bag that fit my description and would hold it for me.
I hurried after work to their lost and found office and was handed my bag. I opened it to check, and everything was still there. Seeing my entire identity intact, a huge black cloud cleared after I had spent the entire workday with my mind still at the outlet mall, running through worst-case scenarios. Holding that small bag, all of those moot scenarios left my body with each exhale of relief.
A Different Kind of Culture
How is it that the people of Japan have cultivated this kind of culture? Anyone who has lived in, visited, or even watched cultural videos about Japan has seen things that would be unthinkable elsewhere. Drunk people passed out on trains or sidewalks.
I have seen a drunk guy fast asleep on a sidewalk with his wallet untouched next to his face while people walked by like it was just another Tuesday—the only person who stopped was someone leaving a bottle of water for when he woke up. This man not only didn't worry that his items would be stolen, he wasn't worried that anyone would harass him either. He knew before his first drink of the night that he was safe. It's not illegal to sleep in public. No one will bother him. Of course, drunk people on sidewalks and trains sprawled out and sloppy is still not a good look, and you would be silently judged, but that is as far as the damage goes.
This culture of public trust doesn't stop at public intoxication. All throughout Japan, in smaller towns and rural areas, there are unmanned train stations that trust you will buy the correct fare ticket on your own and turn it in at your destination. There are vegetable stands on the side of the road with no attendant. Nothing but handwritten price instructions and maybe a security camera. The rest is up to you to uphold the system of honor.
The infrastructure is built around the idea that people will be honest.
After getting my bag back, my mother-in-law told me that in Japan, if you lose something, you will get it back 90 percent of the time. There is still a 10 percent chance you won't. And it's not to say that people in Japan don't steal.
My wife once lost her Louis Vuitton handbag with about ¥50,000 in cash inside. The police called her after finding it—her ID was inside—and when it was returned, everything was still there except the cash. Japan is not perfect by any means. In a single year there were two burglaries in my neighborhood, and there are other examples of theft and other crimes all over.
It doesn't matter where you are in the world. There will always be criminals. But the idea of honor is still very strong in Japan.
After telling my bag story to a fellow teacher, she reacted by sharing a Japanese proverb: 武士は食わねど高楊枝 (bushi wa kuwanedo takayōji). A samurai may starve, but he still uses a toothpick. The meaning: in the way of the samurai, a warrior would make it look like he had eaten by chewing on a toothpick—to keep his dignity even when he was going hungry.
I asked her, "If you knew you could get away with stealing money, why wouldn't you do it?"
She said, "Even if nobody sees me, I would feel embarrassed by such an action. I would feel a deep sense of shame."
She was proud to hear that I had a happy resolution to my situation—as though this outcome was expected, because this is Japan.
Built, Not Born
That confidence doesn't come from nowhere. It is built into the system here. There are reward systems in place for people who find lost cash. Depending on the sum, you can get a percentage. For smaller amounts, you might get an orei (お礼)—a small thank-you gift like sweets. In schools, moral education is taught from the first year of elementary school all the way through graduation. It is also instilled into the culture not to become a burden or cause trouble for others—to avoid being a meiwaku (迷惑).
People are taught empathy. They are taught to imagine what it would be like to be in a similar situation. There is a collectivist ideal that encourages everyone in Japan to see each other as people on the same team. And teammates have each other's backs.
You often find this kind of empathy and compassion in cultures and religions that have existed for thousands of years. For those of us who grew up as first generation Americans, the contrast is easy to see. As the son of Syrian immigrants, the culture of honor, respect, compassion, and empathy for others are remnants of the ancient empires that rose and fell over the span of multiple millennia.
I can still hear the echoes of my mother and father asking me, Mu 'ayb 'aleyk? (مو عيب عليك؟)
"Isn't that a shame on you?"
This type of shame is more akin to embarrassment for yourself. When I was a child, my father took me to Taco Bell and we were ordering to go. I asked for a water cup. I filled it with Pepsi, and got into the car. My dad didn't immediately notice, but the moment he did he busted a U-turn that scared me. I remember very clearly the anger in his eyes, and the disappointment of my actions. He took me inside, and commanded me to tell the clerk what I did. The entire restaurant stopped to watch what was happening—my crime was on display for all to see. I told the clerk what I did, and even though they said it was okay, my father insisted we pay for what I took. They charged me 72 cents.
Among the lessons I learned growing up, this was the most valuable one. It does not matter how small the item is. It does not matter who you are taking it from. My Syrian father, having no relation to Japan until I moved here, demonstrated to me the proverb my coworker later shared with me. A warrior's dignity is worth more than a water cup full of Pepsi.
Our Hope
For us in the United States, our culture has not been around that long. I have heard many people talk about how chivalry is dead, and the manners and hospitality of the old cowboys are dead. But that is not true. The voices saying it's dead are just the loudest.
We are still growing as a multiethnic and multicultural people. America is among the youngest nations to have undergone multiple major social shifts over the course of just two and a half centuries. We are in a unique position given our history and mixture of world cultures. I remember many of my teachers saying that we are a melting pot, and as the years go by, it is clear we are still figuring out who we are. And I acknowledge, as a first generation American, maybe I am projecting my own experience here. We are still a young nation in the grand scheme of the world.
But that youth isn't an excuse. It's an opening. We're still forming, which means the window is still open to build on the principles the older cultures figured out a long time ago.
Things like the self-respect to feel shame when shame is warranted. The empathy to imagine yourself on the other side of a lost wallet. The honor to return what isn't yours—not because someone is watching, but because that is who we are.
The same way a cowboy takes their hat off out of respect for others, a samurai doesn't need an audience to have dignity. Neither should we.
Comments
Post a Comment