In the lab, engineering isn't just about calculations and tests; it's an exhausting social choreography. I remember those endless evenings when my work had been finished for a long time. I was eager to go home, lie down, escape this leaden silence. But my colleague next to me didn't move. He kept relaunching series of tests, focused, imperturbable.
In Japan, there is this invisible pressure: you don't leave before the group, and certainly not before your "senpai" or direct colleague. I felt literally trapped. Leaving at a typical French hour would have been seen as an offense, a rupture of the "Wa"—the group harmony. I sat there, frustrated, internally enraged, pretending to be busy just so I wouldn't seem disinterested.
It's a violent experience for a mind accustomed to individual efficiency. You realize that you no longer fully belong to yourself. You are a part of a machine that demands a sacrificial presence. I spent hours staring at my screen, waiting for my colleague to finally give the signal to leave, thus learning forced patience and the sometimes absurd cost of Japanese social cohesion.