Just recently, I learned a fancy new philosophical term: hermeneutical injustice. It means that when society lacks the shared interpretive framework to discuss and understand a certain condition or phenomenon, the issue gets dismissed and invalidated as unimportant.
A good example of this is post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). After the First World War, many returning soldiers experienced flashbacks, nightmares, and hypervigilance—then called "shell shock." Later, in the Vietnam War era, the same symptoms were called "combat fatigue." It was not until 1980 that PTSD was officially recognized and added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-III). In short, it took sixty years of struggle for PTSD to gain legitimacy.
Other conditions have followed a similar trajectory toward recognition. For instance, traumatic brain injury (often seen in professional football players), sexual harassment, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, and, most recently, Long Covid have followed a comparable path. All of these became more widely understood and taken seriously only after those affected spoke up and shed light on what had previously been misunderstood or overlooked. By providing the frameworks and language for their experiences, they helped create shared understanding, which is both powerful and crucial for raising awareness and educating the public.
It's worth noting that complex PTSD (or complex trauma), which results from prolonged or repeated traumatic experiences—often beginning in childhood—is now classified as a separate category from classic PTSD in the International Classification of Diseases. However, it hasn't yet been fully adopted into the DSM-5, the diagnostic system commonly used in America. This shows why giving voice to these overlooked and invisible wounds, and continuing to strive for wider recognition, remains so vital for fostering our collective understanding.
As I reflected on this idea, the first thing that came to mind was the phenomenon of hikikomori in Japan. This refers to a severe form of social withdrawal that affects an estimated 1.5 million people—about 2% of the Japanese population. Most are working-age men between 20 and 60, many of whom continue to live with their parents. Because of the heavy stigma attached to mental health issues, combined with a culture of shame, many prefer to hide away while being cared for by aging parents. In such a shame-based culture, it's not just the hikikomori who are marginalized—the entire family withdraws and lives in the shadow of society. The Japanese government has struggled to address this serious social and demographic problem.
Multiple studies link hikikomori to complex trauma (C-PTSD), often rooted in adverse childhood experiences such as family dysfunction, emotional neglect, or bullying, which resonates with me personally. I cannot turn a blind eye to this crisis, as I can empathize deeply with their experience. When early trauma combines with social pressures and rigid cultural expectations or judgment, it is not hard to see how it can create a perfect storm that drives someone to withdraw completely from society.
Because trauma appears to be a significant risk factor in many such cases, I hope my work can help address the hermeneutical injustice surrounding hikikomori and similar struggles with invisible wounds—by naming the unnamable and giving voice to the type of trauma that is too often overlooked, dismissed, and left unhealed.