To a first-time visitor, Japan can feel like a different planet—not because of the technology or language, but because of the stunning level of public safety. It’s not unusual to see a laptop left unattended at a Starbucks table, a bag or notebook placed to “reserve” a seat at a food court, or a young woman sleeping on the train with her smartphone balanced precariously on her lap. And perhaps most astonishingly, these items are still there when their owners return.
In most countries, such casual trust would be unthinkable. But in Japan, it is woven into the fabric of everyday life.
One common scene takes place in any major city: a businessman in his twenties, clearly intoxicated, sleeping on a bench or even the sidewalk with his briefcase cradled under one arm. In many parts of the world, this would be an open invitation for theft—or worse. In Japan, however, passersby often leave him alone or even check to make sure he’s okay. His belongings? Untouched.
Then there’s the convenience store culture. It’s not rare to see customers place their wallets or phones on the counter to hold their spot in line while grabbing something they forgot. No one grabs them. No one pushes ahead. It’s a small act, but one that speaks volumes.
Subway rides offer more examples. Women of all ages routinely fall asleep in public transit—headphones in, eyes closed, bags open. Smartphones dangle from loose fingers. And yet, the risk of having their items stolen is remarkably low. Parents let their children walk to school unaccompanied, even in busy metropolitan areas. Bicycles are left unlocked. Lost items are more likely to be turned in to the police than taken home by whoever finds them.
So what makes this possible?
Some credit Japan’s low crime rate to strict laws and a highly visible police presence. Others point to cultural factors: a society built on mutual respect, internalized shame, and the fear of burdening others. The Japanese concept of “meiwaku” (causing trouble or inconvenience to others) plays a powerful role in public behavior. Taking something that doesn’t belong to you isn’t just illegal—it’s shameful.
Education reinforces this early. Schoolchildren are taught not only rules and manners, but also how their actions affect the community. Trash is sorted meticulously. Shoes are removed at entrances. Order is expected and largely followed—not out of fear of punishment, but from a sense of shared obligation.
Another layer comes from the uniformity and structure of Japanese society. Predictability is valued. Rules are clear. This creates an environment where deviating from norms is both rare and socially discouraged. That includes theft or violence. People know they are being watched—not just by authorities, but by neighbors, bystanders, and the quiet but persistent voice of social expectation.
Yet this perceived safety is not without nuance. While petty theft is rare, it is not nonexistent. Women still face harassment on trains, leading to women-only cars during rush hour. Domestic violence and cybercrime are growing concerns, albeit less visible. And critics argue that the image of Japan as a crime-free utopia can lead to complacency or underreporting.
Even so, for most day-to-day experiences, Japan remains astonishingly safe. Travelers often report losing items and having them returned, sometimes with polite notes attached. Tourists leave bags on benches while taking photos and find them exactly where they left them. Restaurants regularly hold forgotten umbrellas or jackets for days, waiting for their owners to return.
In a time when global trust in public spaces is eroding, Japan offers a compelling counterexample. The country’s safety isn’t enforced—it’s embedded. It’s not just about low crime statistics; it’s about a collective mindset where doing the right thing feels normal.
For foreigners living here, the adjustment is often twofold: amazement at what people don’t do (steal, harass, push), and a deepening sense of personal responsibility. Because when you realize that people trust each other by default, you begin to uphold that trust yourself.
In a way, Japan’s safety is less about rules and more about invisible agreements. Agreements to respect, to refrain, to return. Agreements not written in law, but understood in practice. And for anyone experiencing it for the first time, the sensation isn’t just one of safety—it’s one of awe.