Aokigahara: The Suicide Forest

I recently had the opportunity to visit Japan with a friend. Everyone I met in the Land of the Rising Sun was kind, generous, and excited to share their vibrant and extensive culture — not to mention the greatest Nigiri sushi I have ever eaten in my life.

We rented a vehicle in Tokyo so we could drive out to see Mount Fuji and the surrounding area. We were feeling a bit brave, not just in navigating Tokyo’s bustling, narrow streets, but also in learning to drive on the left side of the road (with the steering column on the right side of the vehicle).

But apparently we needed our courage for a different reason.

After getting our rental car, the employee asked us for our destination so he could enter the location into the vehicle’s built-in GPS. When my friend told him Aokigahara Forest, he became visibly worried, shaking his head and making an X with his fingers.

Though he spoke little English, he did repeat one single word: Cursed. Cursed.

Aokigahara is also known as Jukai, loosely translated as Sea of Trees. The 30-square-kilometer forest is located just north of Mount Fuji in Japan’s Yamanashi Prefecture about 100 miles west of Tokyo.

But Aokigahara is also known by another name — the Suicide Forest.

Though recent estimates are difficult to come by (as local police stopped releasing the data to the public), 54 people killed themselves in Aokigahara Forest in 2010 with an additional 247 suicide attempts, according to The Japan Times.

And it’s speculated that the number is higher, as many of the bodies of those who commit suicide in Aokigahara might simply not have been found.

Compare that to one of the most infamous suicide locations in the world — San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. In 2010, there were 32 successful suicides according to the Bridge Rail Foundation.

Aokigahara’s reputation as a final respite is so prevalent that regular suicide patrols hike the forest, and a sign was erected at the main entrance which reads, “Think carefully about your children, your family.” At the bottom of the message is a phone number for those contemplating suicide.

As my friend and I hiked through Aokigahara Forest, I understood why someone may choose this location to drift off silently into the Sea of Trees, never to return.

The sky was thick with gray, ominous clouds pregnant with rain which fell periodically through the abundant tree canopy above. Thunder occasionally echoed stridently through the forest, followed by an eerie silence.

I didn’t hear any wildlife, only the soft murmur of raindrops splashing against damp tree branches and colorful dying leaves, some of which tumbled past me in brief flashes of yellow and red, landing silently on the forest floor.

The forest ground itself was made of lava rock, covered by thick blankets of moss, vegetation, and densely packed deciduous trees. It was a truly peaceful paradise, the compact trees truncating any ambient noise and fostering an intense sense of quietude I’ve rarely experienced anywhere else.

Although the notion of committing suicide while submerged in such a serene environment wasn’t that shocking (at least to me), I was surprised to learn that Japan has one of the highest suicide rates of any industrialized nation. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), there were 29,442 suicides in Japan in 2012 — which works out to about 80 suicides every day.

That’s 18.5 suicides for every 100,000 Japanese citizens. As a comparison, the US had a suicide rate of 12.1 per 100,000 the same year, slightly higher than the world average of 11.4.

And as someone who has struggled with depression, these statistics made me wonder why the suicide rate is so much higher in Japan than in the US. Suicide doesn’t carry the same kind of stigma as it does in America. I’ve often been told that killing yourself is an unforgivable sin with a one-way ticket to the lake of fire (which isn’t much of a threat if you don’t believe in Hell).

But in Japan, there exists no religious taboo. In fact, the practice of Seppuku, or ritual suicide, is embedded in the culture as a way of taking responsibility for one’s actions.

There’s also the problem of seclusion. Psychologist Wataru Nishida of Temple University in Tokyo told BBC News in an article covering this very topic that one of the main reasons for the high suicide rate in Japan is isolation, cultivated by lives built behind technology. This can lead to what is called Hikikomori, in which Japanese men and women hide in their homes or apartments for months, sometimes even years at a time. The Japanese government reported that in 2010, there were 700,000 individuals living in Hikikomori.

Lastly, Japan’s National Police Agency reported that depression due to financial struggles was a key factor in the country’s high suicide rate, with 57 percent of those who committed suicide in 2010 unemployed when they died. And not only is having a conversation about mental illness frowned upon, psychologists in Japan have no government certification program (unlike in the US).

Still, the Japanese government has recognized the problem, cultivating suicide prevention programs and declaring March National Suicide Prevention Month. Why March? It’s the end of the fiscal year and also when suicides hit their peak.

These programs seem to be working, as the WHO reported the suicide rate has been dropping slowly but steadily the past couple of years.

Fighting the longing for Hikikomori and talking about my depression are strategies I myself have implemented when those suicidal thoughts begin to rain down upon me. And though I do enjoy my days alone (nothing is more tranquil than going on long, extended hikes by myself), I do try to balance out my valued secluded days with coffee dates or lunches with friends and family.

Like the sign at the entrance of Aokigahara Forest, staying engaged is a reminder of those who care about me, of those who are not always visible when I’m trying to navigate the foreboding, impenetrable forest that is depression.