When the Train Stopped My Thoughts: A Story About Suicide, Culture, and the Silent Battles We Don’t See.

When the Train Stopped My Thoughts: A Story About Suicide, Culture, and the Silent Battles We Don’t See.

A couple of days ago, something inside me shifted. I had just reached my last station, ready to start another ordinary workday in Tokyo. I stepped off the train, blending into the quiet morning rush, when suddenly a scream tore through the air. A loud, piercing cry that froze every step around me.

People rushed forward instinctively. Curious. Shocked. Confused. And then I saw it,a well-suited man had just jumped in front of an oncoming train.

For a moment, time stood still. I couldn’t process it. A man who had woken up, put on his suit, polished his shoes, prepared for work like everyone else… and somewhere between his home and that platform, he decided, “I’m done.”

The most chilling part is that this wasn’t my first time experiencing this in Japan. The first time, I was sitting quietly at a station waiting for my train when another man leapt in front of an oncoming train. I remember the scream from that day too. A scream that didn’t just echo around the platform, it echoed inside me. I could not sleep for days. I kept replaying it, asking myself questions that still have no answers.

Is this really life?

Is this what we are working so hard for?

How heavy must someone’s heart be for death to feel like the only escape?

I have never understood suicide. I still don’t. And I am not here to judge anyone who walks that painful road. But witnessing it shakes something in you. It makes you confront emotions you didn’t know you had. It opens questions you didn’t know you were allowed to ask.

And strangely, these moments in Japan pulled me back to Zimbabwe, to a memory I still wish I could forget.

One of our neighbour’s sons hanged himself years ago. I still remember his mother’s cry, a cry that felt like it wasn’t just coming from her throat, but from her soul. A sound no human should ever hear. And before the shock even settled, before the community had time to heal, his brother did the same thing. Same method. Same ending. Same tragedy replayed in one home.

I remember standing there, staring at their mother, wondering how a heart survives such loss. How do you bury one child and survive? How do you bury two and still breathe?

That’s when questions started rising inside me.

Is suicide purely emotional?

Is it societal pressure?

Is it spiritual?

Is there something lurking in the background , a darkness we don’t talk about?

Growing up in African culture, suicide was not something people sat down to discuss openly. It was whispered about. Blamed on spirits. Blamed on curses. Blamed on mental weakness. But strangely, no one ever sat down and said, “Let’s understand this. Let’s talk. Let’s help.”

Some said it was a spiritual attack.

Some said it ran in the family.

Some said it was a demon of heaviness.

Some said it was generational trauma passed down silently.

Some said it was guilt, shame, pressure, fear.

Maybe all of them were right in their own way.

Even the Bible doesn’t shy away from showing the emotional battles of those who came before us. Elijah begged God to take his life. Job cursed the day he was born. Jonah wanted to die. Even Moses reached a point where he said, “Lord, this is too much for me.” And every time, God didn’t respond with judgment. He responded with rest, with comfort, with presence, with reassurance. As if reminding us that sometimes the deepest battles are not visible to the human eye. Sometimes the war is spiritual long before the act becomes physical.

Living in Japan has shown me another layer of the issue. A country that is peaceful, beautiful, orderly, safe, yet silently suffering in ways that many outsiders do not see. Suicide here is almost woven into the fabric of society. The pressure is constant. The expectations are high. The loneliness is deep. Vulnerability is discouraged. Failure is shameful. And people carry burdens with perfect posture and polite smiles, never wanting to inconvenience anyone with their pain.

Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the world. And when you live here long enough, you begin to understand why. You see the exhaustion in people’s eyes. You feel the loneliness in crowded trains. You sense the heaviness in the silence.

Seeing someone jump in front of a train, twice, made me realise that the world is full of people who are alive but battling something deadly inside. People dressed in suits, going to work, raising families, appearing strong, while slowly drowning in invisible storms.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that suicide is not just a mental health issue. It is not just societal pressure. It is not just emotional pain. And it is not just spiritual warfare. It is an intersection where all these forces collide. When emotional exhaustion meets spiritual darkness. When societal pressure meets deep personal wounds. When silence meets suffering. When shame meets fear.

Today, as I write this, I still feel uneasy. Still shaken. Still thinking about that man in the suit. Still remembering the scream that cut through the air. Still thinking about that Zimbabwean mother crying for her sons. Still thinking about the unseen battles people are fighting around me.

We walk past people every day who are carrying storms inside them. People who smile so convincingly that you'd never guess they cried themselves to sleep. People who look fine but feel empty. People who are one small push away from giving up. People who need kindness more than they will ever admit.

So today, I remind myself , and maybe I remind you too, to be gentle with people. To speak life into others. To check on your friends. To listen without judgment. To pray for those fighting battles we cannot see. To remember that sometimes a kind word can interrupt a dark decision.

And if you are reading this and carrying something heavy, please remember:

You are not alone.

You are not a burden.

You are not beyond saving.

You are needed.

You are loved.

And your story is not done yet.

The world would not be the same without you.