Recently, anthropologist and philosopher Alain Julian visited a rehabilitation center for modern recluses in Japan.
In the early 1990s, Japan faced economic stagnation known as the "lost decade." During this period, many cases emerged where people began to isolate themselves in their homes, ceasing participation in work, educational, and social life. These individuals, known as "hikikomori," derived their name from the Japanese words hiku (to pull) and komoru (to seclude), implying "those who have gone inside." Initially, it was believed that this phenomenon primarily affected youth, especially men living under parental care, most often from their mothers. However, over time, hikikomori began to affect people of all ages and genders.
Today, about 1.5 million Japanese, which is over 1% of the country's population, can be classified as hikikomori. This phenomenon is also observed in other countries such as South Korea, Italy, Spain, China, France, Argentina, and the USA. Despite its widespread occurrence, there is no consensus on what hikikomori is and what causes it. This uncertainty makes the treatment process quite complex.
Some psychologists view hikikomori as a condition rather than a syndrome, linking it to various mental disorders such as anxiety, depression, schizophrenia, or social phobia. In some cases, it has been proposed to include hikikomori in psychiatric classifications to create a new diagnosis. The mass media often portray hikikomori as immature individuals who avoid responsibility and socialization, attributing their reclusiveness to laziness or lack of skills. An example is the manga and anime NHK ni Yōkoso! ("Welcome to NHK!"), where a character obsessed with anime and games only changes after financial support from parents ceases. In the late 1990s, sociologist Yamada Masahiro introduced the term "parasaito shinguru," referring to selfish adults living with their parents.
Despite various emphases, most interpretations of hikikomori reduce it to a personal problem rooted in psychological or moral deficiencies. And although explanations diverge, they all point to the fact that isolation is an internal issue of the individual. But how justified is this assertion in the modern "age of loneliness"?
In search of answers, I traveled to Japan to visit one of the many rehabilitation centers for hikikomori that have emerged in the country over the past decades. These institutions offer informational support and psychological assistance. As a researcher, I wanted to find out what "rehabilitation" actually means and how one can treat a condition that lacks an official diagnosis.
On a cold winter morning in 2024, I arrived at a train station in central Japan, where I was met by Fumiko, a woman just over thirty years old, who works at the rehabilitation center for hikikomori. A few months earlier, the center's director had granted me permission to observe their rehabilitation program, which they refer to as "school."
The center is located in a building on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by suburban houses and agricultural land.
Inside, I met seven staff members, after which Fumiko led me to the "class." Upon opening the door, I saw a young man partially hidden under a mask and a large jacket, standing in front of a board. At tables spaced a meter apart, several people were seated, turning to look at us.
These were hikikomori attending treatment, including both teenagers and individuals just over thirty. I briefly introduced myself and took a seat at the back.
For ten days, I immersed myself in the life of the center, where the daily routine was clearly structured. We were awakened at 7:30 AM, breakfast was at 8:30, and classes began at 9:30, announced by a school bell. The bell also signaled the start and end of lunch, and the school day concluded at 4:00 PM. Residents prepared their own meals and cleaned up. The only deviations from the routine were physical education classes on Wednesdays and rare excursions, such as to a nearby farm.
The dormitory included a small living room with a television, a kitchen, and a corridor leading to the women's rooms. On the second floor were small men's rooms without windows, where temperatures sometimes dropped below zero in winter.
During my conversations with the residents of the center, I heard many different stories. However, there was a common thread: fear, trauma, or stress had led to isolation, which helped restore inner balance. It was a way to find safety. Nevertheless, explaining the duration of this isolation proved much more difficult. My interlocutors fell silent, their gazes becoming vacant as if they were searching for an answer that eluded them.
Contrary to the common perception of hikikomori as people avoiding responsibility, most sincerely desire change. Many describe their state as being stuck, where each day is a struggle. They feel guilty for not meeting the expectations of their relatives and society. I noticed that they appeared tired and sad, hoping that the rehabilitation center would help them start a new life. How exactly does the center assist in this process?
Classes at the center include arts and crafts, acting, and public speaking. However, in practice, they seem to occupy the residents more than teach them anything. Often, classes were conducted in an improvisational format, without a clear structure. To better understand the program, I spoke with the founder of the center, who briefly outlined its essence: "When people cannot follow rules, they become hikikomori. We teach them the rules so they can adapt to life, especially in work."
The main idea is that social integration depends not on mutual understanding but on adherence to rules. This reflects a broader cultural tradition in Japan, where mental difficulties are often perceived as trials to be overcome. Well-being is associated with perseverance and the ability to accept fate. This approach remains popular, especially regarding hikikomori, who are often considered lazy or weak. As the founder noted: "I strive to make my students emotionally resilient so they can recover from failures."
The goal of the classes is to instill essential life qualities such as discipline and independence. This spirit permeates the everyday life of the center. Residents are expected to demonstrate independence, and they are strongly discouraged from helping each other with simple tasks. Even minor support, like assistance with laundry or dishwashing, is not welcomed. This way, the ideal of individual responsibility is formed.
The rooms in the dormitory also became part of the learning process. They are intentionally designed without amenities. When I complained to Fumiko about the cold in my room, she replied without hesitation that it was done intentionally to draw residents out of isolation into warmer common areas.
I concluded that care does not imply comfort or warmth but demands submission. Here, the "self" became an object of correction rather than understanding.
Since hikikomori does not have an official diagnosis, there is no single definition of recovery. This leads rehabilitation centers to develop their own therapy rules, often based on parental expectations. In this center, progress is measured by the degree of independence and personal responsibility. Some patients may spend months or even years in low-skilled jobs in factories, farms, or postal services. But the question of whether they can escape the forces that initially led to their isolation remains open.
One former resident of the center, Miyuki, a woman just over thirty who found part-time work, told me about her life with two "personalities." On the outside, she has returned to normal life, works, and follows a routine. But she has not "recovered": she lives with another version of herself — hikikomori. "I realize that I am both at the same time," she said. "Even now during the holidays, I often stay home. I have no friends or family. So I still feel a bit hikikomori."
"Recovery" through gaining independence did not lead to the cessation of her social isolation. Although work helped her shed the label of "hikikomori," the deeper problem remained. For people like Miyuki, one form of isolation can be replaced by another. This highlights a more serious issue underlying the hikikomori phenomenon.
Today, nearly 40% of Japanese households consist of one person. Even among working citizens, labor market flexibility has led to traditional working relationships, once called "shokuba kazoku" (working families), becoming rare. And this problem is not limited to Japan alone. People worldwide are becoming socially isolated. Thus, hikikomori embodies social failures, marking individuals unable to adapt, work, or participate in a productive society. Rehabilitation may make them independent and employed, but it does not always restore a sense of belonging.
We live in a world of virtual connections, unstable employment, and community disintegration. Hikikomori reveal the social logic of change: participation in life is only possible in the context of productivity. They are not just outcasts; they reflect values that many share in an era of burnout and loneliness. Thus, Japanese hikikomori, once perceived as an anomaly, now act as mirrors reflecting a common sense of alienation experienced by many, regardless of employment status.
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