Interpretation of the Law 1: Not Just Another Friday Night
Epilogue: Intro
Every so often, I get stopped by the police in Japan. Sometimes it’s after a high-profile terrorist attack in Europe, or when I’m in situations that allow for suspicion like airport security. Other times, it just seems to be my turn as a foreigner to be searched. On this particular Friday night, it definitely felt like the latter.
Not Just Another Friday Night
Roppongi, Tokyo
May 2023, 19:30 Friday Night
I’m walking up a backstreet of Roppongi, just a block from my Friday night dance lesson, when a chubby Japanese man jogs up beside me and asks to see the Leatherman clipped to my belt.
I tell him “no.”
He flashes a badge, and out of nowhere, two more undercover officers appear, boxing me in against the wall in case I try to escape. With no real choice, I let him unclip the tool from its holster. While he and one undercover officer inspect it, the other questions me.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
My eyes stay glued to the chubby officer’s hands as he unfolds each tool, one by one. “I’m on my way to a class,” I answer. “A class?” he repeats, clearly skeptical-after all, this is the red-light district. I watch as the chubby officer finally pulls out the knife, my mind bracing for a long lesson.
They measure the knife, and sure enough, it exceeds the six-centimeter limit of the law. I do my best to explain, in broken Japanese, that the tool is for work purposes. Three cops become five, and soon the alley is so crowded that pedestrians have to squeeze past us, casting curious glances-only to quickly look away if we make eye contact.
I remember stories from colleagues in my industry who faced similar situations. One friend was searched on his way to work, Leatherman in his bag. He explained himself and was let go with little fuss. Another friend wasn’t so lucky-he was stopped with his Leatherman in the car, nowhere near work, and ended up facing a long interrogation. Thinking of them, I remind myself that I’m not alone in this; others have navigated these moments before me, and I can too.
I make my case, explaining that I’m coming from work and that’s why the Leatherman is in my possession.
“It does not matter,” one officer objects. “It should stay at the office.”
I try another angle. “What if I just bought it?”
“Did you just buy it?” another officer presses.
My instincts tell me that even if I had just bought it, heading to the club instead of work would still be a problem.
“No, I didn’t just buy it.”
They measure the knife-once, twice, then again. Each officer insists on having his say, taking a turn with a different measuring stick. It isn’t that they expect a different result; it’s as if they need to be one hundred times five percent sure-or maybe just to look competent. The same six centimeters are scrutinized from every possible angle, over and over, until I lose count. With each new measurement, another officer appears, and soon there are seven, each one reminding me how forbidden it is to carry a knife this size.
One even tells me the neighborhood is dangerous and I shouldn’t carry a weapon. By that logic, I think, wouldn’t it make even more sense to have something for self-defense?
