"Danger!" "Be Careful!" "Watch out!"

Anyone who moves to Japan soon discovers that the words 'abunai' (dangerous) and 'gochui' (caution) are used much more frequently than their English counterparts. There are posters everywhere, 'cautioning' citizens about angry moving vehicles, shady characters lurking about the neighborhood, deathly elevator doors, hazardous staircases, and even committing the ultimate sin of tossing garbage in the wrong bin. My co-workers describe skipping meals or taking medicine in capsule form as 'dangerous'. The office computer programmer repeatedly warns me of simultaneously operating two computer applications. Could we be living in a culture of fear?

This talking angry bus reminds us that throwing ourselves on the street in the path of moving vehicles is 'dangerous'

Everywhere you go, from the bucolic sprawl of Japanese suburbia to the bustling streets of downtown Tokyo, threats of abductions and fatal accidents accost our eardrums and sear our eyeballs. 'Danger', it seems, is everywhere. Before coming to Japan I had been convinced that I'd be living in one of the safest countries in the world and after three years that image has solidified. Japan boasts the lowest percentage of people victimized by crime and the third lowest murder rate per capita. Then why am I assaulted by terrifying warnings every day, from the minute I walk out my front door?

On the first day of my new job in Tokyo I left my miniature apartment, took a deep breath of dirty polluted air, clenched my teeth, and charged full force ahead. I was unsuspecting, self-assured and ready to seize the day. It was just a fifteen-minute walk from my home to the train station, but I found myself subjected to scores of these 'informational' signs. One notice warned me of sleazy stalkers, another of lurking perverts in trench coats. One poster portrayed a demonic black phantom luring innocent children to their deaths.

'dark streets' are homes to knife-wielding ghosts and evil spirits

I was further terrorized by horrendous images of fatal grease fires causing disasters and devastation. The community bulletin boards informed me of 'flying children', and the dangers of not separating garbage. I looked for signs warning us of 'flying cars', but to no avail. Vehicles zip along at alarming speeds making pedestrians feel unwelcome in the tiny narrow streets of Japan.

By the time I had reached the station, I thought the worst had passed. I mustered up whatever energy I had left for the train ride. I somehow managed to slither onto the platform (still on the alert for winged kids and kitchen fires) and found myself instantly bombarded by high pitch announcements warning me not to step too close to the tracks, beyond the big yellow line. Common sense told me to stay away from the edge, I wondered if I needed the constant reminders? I wasn't sure, since everyone else was maintaining a safe distance. My train station is small, and on an obscure line - designed to carry innocent passengers away from the fast-paced world of Shinjuku to the calm western suburbs. Trains either sailed past (express trains) or arrived (local trains) at the platform every 5 minutes, with an average of four announcements for every approaching train and a melodic chime indicating the closing of the doors. In time I discovered the longer I spent on the platform the closer I came to losing my mind. Looking around the station, I couldn't avoid the full-size posters plastered on every wall that illustrated one's darkest fears: cats losing tails in closing doors and animated babies being tossed onto the tracks by negligent mothers running for the train.

The baby would like to 'always ride the train safely'						All cats should 'beware of the door'!

Just visualizing all these terrible accidents was too much for my heart, which had begun to race. I had to wipe my sweaty palms on my suit jacket.
What was next?

It seemed the biggest concern would be a collision of passengers in a rush, or a stumble down one of the three sets of murderous staircases in the station. The Japanese had not missed dramatizing the risk of such an unfortunate accident: a cartoon train staff reprimanding foolish passengers and featureless blobs tumbling to their death.

		A: "it's very dangerous". B: "passengers running late cause accidents". "Let's not rush for our train, ok?"

As the train approached, I realized I was the only one obeying the signs. I could hear the onslaught of clicking heels racing down the stairs at break-neck speed while everyone else was pushing to get beyond the yellow barrier before the train had even stopped. Wondering if I'd make it aboard without falling into the deep chasm, I waited patiently for every last passenger to get off and all the new passengers to board, all the while maintaining a safe distance one foot behind the yellow line. Only when the conductor announced departure did I leap into the carriage, careful not to get my tail caught in the crashing doors. Thinking I was home free I tried to relax, but the next stop we were bombarded by a great influx of passengers. I heard a crunch of bones and breathing became difficult. I peered through the window my nose was pressed up against, and witnessed a gruesome horror: stragglers were running for their train. My train! The familiar death chimes sounded, the conductor yelled 'Beware of closing doors'. I felt faint....

I awoke to find myself exactly as before, the dawdlers were safely on board. Reassured that I myself sustained no injury except near-suffocation, I realized there is actually no room to pass out on a Tokyo train at rush hour: the only form of encouragement I had felt all morning.

		'Crime Prevention' in a 'patrolled neighborhood' entails wolf bullies and crying piggies?

Perhaps the greatest source of my anxiety stems from the images themselves. Victims are depicted as little pigs in private school uniforms or young helpless women. Criminals are cartoon foxes bursting out of magical clouds, black knife-wielding blobs or angry speeding buses. I am further troubled by figures of authority that are represented by little boys in baseball caps and frogs in suits. Am I supposed to take the chiding train conductors seriously and heed the advice of a talking pig? When I hurry for my train or cook tempura, should such strange guilty reproaches fill me with dread? Was my first experience commuting to the office supposed to leave me dejected and deflated by 9:30am?

The cartoon warnings at the station had made me feel ten years old again. How old was the average commuter anyways? I returned to the station, eager for some answers. Peering around, I confirmed that I was the youngest rider at the station. Considering I am mature enough to secure a full time job in a foreign country, do I need to be reminded again and again by a talking cartoon that the door will close, and warned that I am at risk? Considering I am not an animated cat but a grown adult, I was terribly confused. Unsure what exactly the danger was, I still found the situation oddly distressing.

As a foreigner startled by the scare tactics used in the public sphere, I wonder how living in a 'culture of fear' affects its citizens. Most people I asked found nothing odd about the cartoon images committing gruesome crimes and acts of grave negligence. Many emphasized the necessity of such warnings, claiming that average Japanese are often too stressed out to think clearly, or too drunk after a post-work jaunt at the pub. Are inebriation and doziness excuses for inattention? Shouldn't common sense stop someone from walking alone at night or balancing on the edge of a train platform? Are we unable to exercise rational judgment and raise our children to stay away from strangers and avoid playing in busy streets? Perhaps the fun loving cartoon warnings, the motherly public announcements, and the empty threats are what keep people alive in this country. After all Japanese enjoy an extraordinarily high life expectancy.

Perhaps this country does need the fourth largest police force in the world. Perhaps because of vigilant security force and all the money and time put into creating an elaborate system of visual and audio counseling, we no longer have to employ prudence or think for ourselves. But could the signs actually prevent tumbles down the staircase, accidents at the train stations, or halt horrendous crimes as kidnapping and rape? Unlikely. I learned there was no imminent physical danger. On the contrary, the warnings had instilled in me a bad case of paranoia. I concluded the purpose these signs have must be their entertainment value. After all, comedy is the perfect antidote to the stresses of living in the biggest city in the world.