“The ‘I’ is wide and can hold much – shūdan ishiki and the Japanese way of being together
Individualism and collectivism do not need to be opposites
In Europe, we are accustomed to placing the “I” in the foreground. We learn to express ourselves, to set boundaries, to speak clearly about what we want. For many of us, maturity consists in distinguishing ourselves from our surroundings – in not allowing ourselves to be “absorbed” by others. This is considered a foundation of self-development, valued and necessary – that is simply our culture and who we are. It is interesting, then, to look into other cultures and ask: could it be otherwise? Out of curiosity, out of the desire to broaden our horizons, not necessarily to change ourselves. And indeed – in Japan, in a world that appears equally modern on the surface, there exists a completely different experience of selfhood. There, the “I” is born among others. Not in opposition, not as a separate monolith, but as a node in a network of relationships, rituals, shared responsibilities, and quiet, unspoken coordination. This experience is known as shūdan ishiki (集団意識) – group awareness, which can be understood not so much intellectually as felt in the air, when, in the morning train, hundreds of people move fluidly, as if they were a single organism.
For us, raised in a culture of expression, personal conviction, and words treated as direct instruments of truth, this may feel unsettling. In Japan, silence often means more than a declaration, and reading the air (kuuki wo yomu) is considered a basic social skill. A relationship is not something we have – it is something we are. It is not about subordination. It is about the fact that in this world, the “I” is like a stroke in calligraphy – the meaning of “person” only emerges when a second stroke is added – a second person, so that they support each other: 「人」.
If we look at this without judging, without comparing which is “better,” something interesting appears: a possibility of expanding our own understanding of ourselves. A moment in which the “I” ceases to be obvious, and becomes something formed – taking different shapes depending on culture and context. Shūdan ishiki does not tell us to abandon individuality. Rather, it suggests that there are worlds in which a person becomes more themselves not through separation, but through co-presence. And once we see this, we begin to hear silence differently, to look at another person differently, to interpret a simple gesture of care differently. And perhaps we discover that our “I” is larger, more fluid, more open, and capable of holding far more than we once assumed.
***
Morning train
It is early morning at Musashi-Sakai Station. The platform fills with people in coats, many holding a konbini coffee or a thermos of green tea. When the Chūō Line Rapid from JR East arrives, no one pushes against the doors; those who are disembarking are given space first. Inside, it is quiet – the sound of newspaper pages turning, the soft tapping of phone keyboards, automatic announcements. People stand close, but do not intrude on one another’s space – slight shifts of weight, a subtle lean, a bag moved slightly to the side create a space not measured in meters, but in mutual attentiveness. There is no direct conversation, no expressive behavior; yet this is not emotional distance, but a way of coexisting in which the presence of others is natural and requires no comment.
***
Cleaning the classroom
In an elementary school in Saitama Prefecture, the lesson ends with the sound of the bell, but the students do not run into the hallway. Each takes up their role: one child lifts the chairs, another wipes the desks with a damp cloth, someone else sweeps the hallway floor. The teacher also cleans, not as a supervisor, but as a participant. There is no tone of compulsion here, but rather the rhythm of daily life, in which the shared space is a shared responsibility. The children speak quietly, sometimes laugh, but work at the same steady pace. When they finish, the classroom appears not merely “clean,” but cared for – like a place that has owners, rather than something that is “someone’s” or “shared meaning belonging to no one.”
***
Office in Shimbashi
In an office near Shimbashi Station, the workday begins almost imperceptibly. Employees enter calmly, exchange brief bows, set down their bags, turn on their computers. When the department meeting begins, there is no dramatic introduction or energetic speech; the conversation unfolds gradually, many things are spoken in half-tones, and often what is not said matters more. Everyone seems attuned to the atmosphere of the room – someone adjusts their voice to match the tone of others, someone else chooses not to present their idea, noticing that the group’s direction has already shifted.
***
Onsen in winter
In a small onsen in Yamanashi, steam rises above hot water, and beyond the windows one sees quiet snow. People sit in the water without words and without haste, not as strangers, but as co-participants in the same experience of warmth and rest. The lack of conversation does not mean lack of connection – it is a connection that does not require verbal confirmation. Each person has their own space, but it is shared space, not isolated space. Belonging here is not declared but felt.
Scenes like this can be found throughout daily life in Japan – on trains, in schools, in companies, in bathhouses. Shared presence, mutual adjustment, a rhythm not imposed from outside, but formed through action. This experience of “being together” does not exclude individuality, but often gives it a different shape: the “I” appears through relationships with others, not alongside them.
In Japanese, there is a term for this: shūdan ishiki, group awareness. Not in the sense of ideology, but of the everyday practice of coexistence.
Shūdan ishiki (集団意識): what “group awareness” really means
The term shūdan ishiki consists of two parts: shūdan (集団) and ishiki (意識).
集 (shū) means “to gather,” “to collect,” “to cluster.” In its oldest forms, the character depicted birds gathered on a tree branch. It carries the image of beings naturally assembling next to one another – not by order, but because it is easier and safer. 団 (dan) means a group, a collective, a social unit. Together, 集団 does not mean an anonymous mass, but a circle of people connected by a shared situation or purpose – a class, a team, a family, a club, a workplace.
意 (i) is “intention,” “thought,” “inner inclination,” closely related to heart and desire. 識 (shiki) is “consciousness,” “the ability to discern,” and in classical Buddhist vocabulary, one of the basic cognitive functions of mind. Together, 意識 (ishiki) means the conscious experiencing of what is happening around us, the recognition of relationships and context.
When a Japanese person says shūdan ishiki, they do not mean an abstract “collective.” What is meant is an emotional capacity to attune oneself to the group, an attentiveness to others, an awareness that the “I” is always situated among.
This is not about subordination. Rather, it reflects the belief that identity is relational. That a person is shaped by the network of connections around them, not in separation from it. In Japan, the question “who am I?” is more often answered through “for whom am I?” and, even more often, “in what role?”
Historically, this principle grew out of life in rural communities, where survival depended on cooperation: shared irrigation of rice fields, shared seasonal labor, shared festivals. If one farmer acted “on his own,” the entire village suffered. Over centuries, this experience became part of the habitual, embodied perception of the world.
This concept does not imply “abandoning oneself.” Rather, it describes a way of seeing relationships: relationships are the backdrop of one’s existence, not merely an accessory to it.
In European cultures, we often assume that the “I” exists as a core that later enters into relationships with others. In Japan, this arrangement is often reversed: the “I” is something that happens between people, in the space of shared activity. This practice is simultaneously invisible and omnipresent – like a way of breathing. And for that reason, it is difficult to notice from the outside. One must be inside the situation, among a group of Japanese people – then, I guarantee, one feels shūdan ishiki clearly and unmistakably. For a European, this may initially evoke discomfort, confusion, and a sense of alienation, but one can grow accustomed to it and even come to appreciate it. Over time. And no, one does not lose one’s individuality in this – despite what is sometimes claimed.
Where did this come from?
The main sources shaping shūdan ishiki
In the past…
To understand shūdan ishiki, we must return to the landscape of old Japan – to rice fields stretching like terraces of green glass. Rice cultivation in a monsoon climate required more than the labor of an individual. It demanded precise coordination of the entire community: shared irrigation channels, shared agricultural calendars, shared observation of weather and seasonal rhythms. If one farmer neglected to regulate the water, the whole village suffered. This was not theory – it was survival.
In such a structure, the responsibility of the individual had a collective dimension. Acting outside the group did not signify independence, but posed a risk to everyone. It was here that the conviction was formed that safety is the result of cooperation, and stability the result of caring for mutual balance. There was no heroic individualism here; instead, there were skills of foresight, consensus, and the ability to read others.
Over the centuries, this pattern of interdependence entered the culture. One no longer needed rice to understand that “the good of the group = stability.” It became the default way of sensing the world.
Today…
In the Japanese social experience, the world is divided less into “I” and “others” and more into uchi (内) – the “inner” (we) – and soto (外) – the “outer” (they). Uchi means family, work group, school class, close circle of friends. Soto refers to those who have not yet been brought into closer relationship.
This distinction is not rigid – it is dynamic, based on time and experience. Trust is not declared in words. Trust is cultivated: through shared activity, shared rhythm of daily life, gradual learning of what does not need to be spoken aloud.
In this context, identity is not a private essence (as it is often imagined in Europe), but a set of roles we assume in relation to those with whom we live. A person is a son or daughter, a member of a team, a co-participant in a project, a student, a senior or a junior. This means that “who I am” is answered through “for whom” and “in what manner.”
In school…
The modern Japanese school is one of the most important spaces where shūdan ishiki is practiced, not taught theoretically.
- Classroom cleaning (掃除 – sōji)
Students clean their own classrooms, hallways, and bathrooms. There is no division into “important” and “unimportant” tasks. Shared care for the space teaches that the environment one lives in is not given – it is a shared responsibility.
- Shared school lunch (学校給食 – gakkō kyūshoku)
Students eat the same food, at the same time, served by their peers. This is not just a health practice – it is an experience of unified rhythm: the body learns that daily life is shared.
- School clubs (部活 – bukatsu)
Here the senpai–kohai system functions most powerfully. The senior is not “superior” but responsible for the junior. The junior is not “lower,” but learning. It is a relationship of gentle asymmetry that creates a sense of intergenerational / interclass continuity.
School is not a place where one “learns cooperation.”School is cooperation.
In the workplace…
In Japanese work culture, there is an invisible but extremely strong emotional contract. A company is not merely an economic organization – it is a space of belonging.
What matters is not only result, but presence.
The one who stays after hours is not showing servitude, but solidarity.
The one who does not abandon the team during difficulty builds trust.
The one who takes responsibility for the group’s mistake affirms: “we are together.”
Leaving a company, especially during a difficult time for it, is often seen as an event with almost moral weight.
In such an environment, work is not merely work. It is a framework of relationships, a daily reaffirmation: “we belong to one another.” This can be a source of strength and stability – and at times, exhaustion and exploitation. But the essential point is this:
It is not an ideology, but a deep cultural habit, rooted in history and ways of living.
How does shūdan ishiki function in everyday relationships?
Kuuki wo yomu (空気を読む) — “reading the air”
One of the most characteristic expressions of shūdan ishiki is the ability to read the air, or kuuki wo yomu. This does not mean guessing hidden intentions in a suspicious sense. Rather, it is a subtle capacity to sense the emotional atmosphere of a group. A Japanese person often does not need words to understand whether a conversation is drifting into awkwardness, whether someone is uncomfortable, or whether a particular remark might disrupt harmony.
This ability has its roots in a culture where silence is not emptiness, but a form of sensitivity. In Japanese communication, a pause can be more significant than the spoken sentence. Silence allows everyone in the group to attune to a shared emotional tone. In Europe, we often expect clarity: say what you think. In Japan, one more often expects: listen before you respond. Before you define your viewpoint, observe the emotional temperature of the situation (more on these differences here: Japanese Art of Silence – How the Concept of Silence Can Highlight Cultural Differences).
One could say that kuuki wo yomu is a form of collective empathy, where the primary task is not to disrupt the delicate structure of relationships everyone is part of. It is not the art of having no opinion. It is the art of attunement — like an instrument in an orchestra that does not try to overpower the others.
Tatemae and honne — harmony between what I feel and what I say
In Japan, there is a natural distinction between honne (本音) — true inner feeling — and tatemae (建前) — what one says or does to maintain social harmony. For a European, this can appear as hypocrisy or lack of authenticity. But in Japanese culture, it is a space of protecting relationships.
Tatemae is not considered lying; it is a form of care for the group. Its purpose is not to hide what one thinks, but to choose a mode of expression that does not wound, shame, or break trust. Honne, on the other hand, exists — but within close relationships, uchi, where safety and trust already prevail.
In practice, this means that a conversation which for a European would be “honest and cathartic” may in Japan be perceived as an intrusion. There, confrontation does not purify — it often simply breaks the relational structure, which will then require a long time to rebuild.
In the world of shūdan ishiki, the goal is not to “express oneself,” but to maintain the relationship within which the self may later be expressed.
“Deru kugi wa utareru” (出る釘は打たれる) — “The nail that sticks out will be hammered down”
The well-known Japanese saying “the nail that sticks out will be hammered down” is often interpreted in Europe as harsh pressure toward conformity. In reality, the meaning is more nuanced.
This is not about suppressing individuality. It is about the idea that individuality becomes complete only when it can coexist with others. In a culture where relationships are the foundation of identity, excessive emphasis on the self may be seen not as courage, but as a disruption of shared rhythm.
In Europe, we often understand “being oneself” as the visible, public affirmation of difference.
In Japan, “being oneself” can mean: knowing one’s place among others and expressing oneself in a way that respects relational space.
Individuality does not disappear — it becomes subtle: it appears in a chosen haori with a distinctive pattern rather than in a loud declaration; in mastery of one’s craft that speaks for itself; in an elegant refinement of gesture that needs no explanation. The individual expresses themselves through their way of being, not through their style of convincing.
What does shūdan ishiki offer people?
Stability and predictability in relationships
In a culture where what matters is not declaration but observable, repeated practice, predictability arises from rituals of co-presence. A morning bow in the office, the meeting structure with a brief silence to scan the mood, the established roles during school sōji, or the schedule of the neighborhood chōnaikai (community council) — these are not trivial details, but signals that regulate expectations. From the perspective of social psychology, they reduce situational uncertainty and lower the transactional cost of relationships: it becomes easier to know “what is appropriate now” without constant renegotiation. As a result, bonds are less fragile because they are based on shared procedures, not merely on temporary compatibility of personalities.
A sense of being embedded in a network of meaning and obligation
The key terms of Japanese everyday life — giri (obligation), on (debt of gratitude), kankei (relationship), wa (harmony), omoiyari (attentive, empathetic care — more on that here: Omoiyari and the Culture of Intuition – The Deepest Difference Between the European and Japanese Mindsets?) — organize the social world. Identity psychology describes such a system as a “relational self”: the individual understands themselves through roles and relationships, not solely through personal traits.
Obligations are not burdens in a moralizing sense; they are maps of connection indicating where goodness returns and where it should be passed onward. This is why a simple act such as contributing annually to the company bonenkai (year-end gathering) or helping at the local matsuri carries meaning beyond the action itself — it confirms belonging to the realm of uchi and sustains the continuity of collective memory.
Communal responsibility for emotions
In the world of shūdan ishiki, emotions are not solely “private.” The principle of meiwaku o kakenai — “do not cause trouble for others” — is at work. This is not a negation of feelings, but a social format for regulating them. Instead of “letting it all out” — which is often valued in expressive cultures — one more commonly practices enryo (restraint) and reading the air, so as not to displace one’s own tension onto the group. From the perspective of emotional regulation psychology, this is a form of co-regulation: the group (family, class, work team) takes on part of the emotional weight through ritual, rhythm, and silent understanding.
Examples appear every day: a manager who eases tension with a softly spoken joke; a colleague who senses that a meeting must end before things escalate; a class that pretends not to notice a student’s mistake, allowing them to keep face. Feelings are not suppressed — they are framed so that the relationship remains safe for everyone.
A place for care and gentle guidance
This relay of care is visible in the senpai–kohai system, in tutoring practices in school clubs, in workplace ozashiki gatherings (informal dinners), where seniors serve food or pour tea/sake for juniors, demonstrating responsibility and attentiveness. This “gentle guidance” is not about issuing commands, but about maintaining the structure within which the younger can make mistakes without being marked by them.
Psychologically, the mechanism of a secure base is at work: the sense that someone senior is “holding” the framework encourages learning and the courage to take on tasks beyond one’s current abilities. Culturally, care is often nonverbal: a chair being moved into place, a discreet suggestion of speaking order, materials prepared in advance for someone. It is “low-noise” but “high-effort” care — it teaches that a relationship does not require constant declaration; a steady, quiet presence is enough.
In these four areas, shūdan ishiki acts as an invisible infrastructure: it organizes expectations, situates the “I” within a network of meaning, distributes emotional weight across the community, and creates space for care that does not need to be loud to be effective. Because of this, everyday life — from riding an elevator to attending a department meeting or a neighborhood watch — has for many people in Japan a recognizable rhythm and grounding that gives the sense of “being at home among one’s own.”
Where do tensions arise?
Limited expression of dissent
In a culture where relational harmony is more valuable than immediate articulation of personal position, dissent is often expressed indirectly. Instead of “I disagree,” one more often hears chotto muzukashii (“that may be difficult”), or a pause after which the conversation shifts. Psychologically, this means that emotions and needs must be regulated in silence, which may create an internal cost: tension between what one feels and what one must withhold for the sake of the group. This does not mean the absence of conflict — conflicts do exist, but they occur “beneath the surface,” in microgestures, shifts of tone, in who begins to avoid whom in the hallway. It is subtle, but a real psychological burden requiring constant self-monitoring.
Slowness of decision-making processes
When decisions must “fit” all relationships and everyone must feel safe, the decision-making process becomes long. Japanese companies often follow the nemawashi model — “preparing the roots,” meaning discreet, informal sounding-out of opinions before a matter enters an official meeting. From a management perspective, this means postponing confrontation in favor of broad consensus. The result: when a decision is finally made, it is strong and lasting. But the process requires patience, the ability to suppress impulse, and the skill of “waiting until the air matures.” This can be exhausting in situations requiring rapid action — especially in global environments.
Difficulty of entry for those outside the community
The division into uchi (inside) and soto (outside) is natural to Japanese social experience. But for outsiders — especially foreigners — it can be felt as a subtle yet distinct distance. It is not hostility; it is simply that trust is built through time and shared ritual, not declarations. Even if someone speaks the language, uses keigo correctly, and can read the air — entry into uchi requires shared history. In practice, this means that until one has spent many repeated situations together (company dinners, morning meetings, shared failures and successes), one remains in the realm of polite but formal goodwill. This can create a feeling of loneliness despite being “among people.”
Sometimes — fatigue from “constant mood-reading”
The ability to kuuki wo yomu is a form of social intelligence, but its intensity can lead to mental strain. Continuous monitoring of the situation, evaluating whether someone felt neglected, whether something was said too directly, whether harmony was preserved — requires energy. Research on social stress in Japan speaks of taijin kyōfu — fear of being perceived as someone who disturbs relationships. This is not individual neurosis, but a social cost of high collective sensitivity.
In Japanese cafés, izakaya, sentō, and quiet parks one can sometimes see people resting not from work — but from the necessity of constant attunement.
In these tensions, there are no “culprits” or “mistakes.” They are the natural consequence of a system that values relationships, predictability, and cohesion. It is simply a different way of organizing the world of emotion and co-presence: one that can soothe and tire, unite and constrain at the same time.
Conclusion
Every culture shapes the human being within a particular environment — climate, social structure, history, daily life patterns. What we call individualism in Europe is not an abstract “idea of personal freedom,” but the result of the long historical development of social structures in which a person could survive independently of a small community. The strength of the “I” — the ability to decide, express opinions, set boundaries — was in such conditions a need, sometimes a condition of survival.
In Japan, for centuries the community was the primary form of life. Where dependence on collective labor in rice cultivation was a direct condition of survival, it became natural to think in terms of “we” — not as the opposite of “I,” but as the frame within which the “I” even makes sense.
Shūdan ishiki is not a moral norm or command. It is not the rule “you should adjust to the group.” It is a way of feeling the presence of others as the natural environment of the self. Just as some people find peace in solitude, others find peace in belonging to something larger. In Japan, a sense of safety often arises not from autonomy, but from the stability of relationships — repeated rituals, jointly formed habits, predictable responses.
Where a European might say, “I am myself because I chose so,” a Japanese person might say, “I am myself because I am with others.”
This is not a story about a better or worse way of life. Both forms — individualist and communal — have their own internal logic, rooted in different histories, social structures, family patterns, and educational models. One places greater emphasis on expression and self-definition, the other on relationality and co-presence.
Encountering these two perspectives can be difficult — but also creative. It can open the understanding that the “I” is not a fixed given, but a cultural construction shaped by environment, rhythm of life, and the flow of emotion between people.
To learn shūdan ishiki is to accept an invitation to see differences not as obstacles, but as opportunities to expand one’s sensitivity. A European who learns to “look together” may notice the subtlety of gestures, silence as a form of care, relationships built slowly and patiently. They may not become “more Japanese,” but they may begin to see themselves in relation, not as “I against the world,” but “I among people.”
And that is an experience that does not disappear — it remains like a gentle trace in the way one listens, speaks, and is present with another human being.
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
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Ciechanów, Polska
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