TOKYO -- There is one term I inevitably hear when interviewing families of asylum seekers in Japan: "karihomen," or "temporary release."

Temporary release allows individuals who have been ordered deported from Japan, including refugee claimants, to be temporarily freed from detention. As of the end of 2023, according to the Immigration Services Agency, there were 2,929 individuals on temporary release status.

These people are restricted from crossing prefectural borders, cannot enroll in national health insurance, and are not permitted to work. Some are required to report to the agency monthly to apply for extensions.

Although the government allows these people to live outside immigration facilities for health and humanitarian reasons, support linking them to medical institutions or welfare services is severely lacking. They live right beside us, bound in a state of poverty and unable to move freely. I wanted to tell their story.

During my interviews, I met Ruby (a pseudonym), a 50-year-old asylum seeker from Sri Lanka who arrived during that country's civil war. Ruby requested the use of a pseudonym to avoid being targeted by the immigration agency. He agreed to be interviewed to share his honest experiences of the restrictions he faces in Japan.

A long legal battle

On Sept. 25, an overcast sky hinted at rain in central Tokyo. A sharp change from the heat of just the week before, a cool autumn breeze occasionally swept through the capital's Kasumigaseki government district. Ruby was here to listen to the result of his appeal over the immigration agency's decision to reject his third refugee status application.

At 1:20 p.m. on the 8th floor of the Tokyo High Court, courtroom 824, the presiding judge took his seat and announced the ruling with no preamble:

"The appeal is dismissed."

Ruby's lawsuit, filed 2 years and 3 months before, ended in a matter of seconds. Sitting at the plaintiff's table, he wore a puzzled expression, seemingly unable to grasp what had happened.

A heavyhearted exchange

Twenty minutes before the hearing, Ruby and his 41-year-old lawyer Lila Abiko were speaking somberly in a waiting room near the courtroom. Abiko explained that, even if they needed to go to the Supreme Court, that day's hearing would be Ruby's last in person; the Supreme Court was all paperwork.

Ruby asked how long the process would take, to which Abiko replied six months to a year, adding though that winning a special residency status allowing Ruby to stay looked unlikely. The immigration agency might try to send him back.

Pleading, Ruby asked Abiko to confirm that he couldn't go back to Sri Lanka, because he was sick. Abiko replied that she knew Ruby had lived in Japan for a long time, and she wanted him to be able to stay. But she didn't get to decide.

There was little chance of a different outcome even if they appealed. As he exchanged words with Abiko, Ruby blinked rapidly, perhaps to hold back tears, and repeatedly licked his lips, as if his mouth had gone dry.

Is it hopeless?

In the hallway after leaving the courtroom, Ruby lowered his head and sat down, asking Abiko repeatedly if it was hopeless. Had his appeal been rejected? Had things turned out badly?

Abiko confirmed that yes, his appeal had been dismissed. What's more, he was liable for court costs. The judge had not given his reasons for rejecting the appeal; they would have to check the written ruling for details. Ruby's expression grew visibly darker.

The ruling stated that the high court had found no error in the lower court's decision to reject Ruby's refugee status claim. Additionally, it noted that it is difficult to recognize the organization that Ruby claims threatened his life as being able to persecute him and others.

Abiko translated and explained the ruling to him in English, and Ruby listened, sometimes holding his head in his hands.

Fear for his life continues

"If he had applied right after arriving in Japan in 2002, things might have turned out differently," Abiko commented.

Ruby didn't file lawsuits after his first and second rejections. Without anyone to consult, he relied on hearsay within the Sri Lankan community that it would cost about 1.5 million yen (about $9,620) per asylum application, leading him to overstay and work illegally. Fearing deportation, he also found it hard to seek help from government offices.

Ruby's story

It took three years for the decision on his first asylum application. The Sri Lankan civil war formally ended in May 2009, and Ruby's rejection came in August that year.

Ruby cannot return to Sri Lanka because of the political persecution he has faced. He was once shot at by a rival political group. His uncle died in a mosque bombing in 2005, a relative was shot to death while farming in 2008, and in 2018, a suspicious visitor came to his family home. Fear for his life still prevents him from going back.

The comfort of the bottle

It was raining when we left the courthouse. Ruby, usually slow-moving, walked even more slowly. We took the subway and JR train back to his lodging facility in Kamakura, Kanagawa Prefecture. Many passersby and passengers may have seen Ruby, looking neat and tidy, as a foreign tourist. He was mostly silent on the way.

Before returning to the facility, he bought two small cups of sake for 213 yen (approx. $1.40) each at a supermarket near the station. He had begun drinking with fellow Muslim friends in Ashikaga, Tochigi Prefecture, to cope with the fear of overstaying his visa.

Ruby said that, as a Muslim, he really shouldn't drink, but that he drank a little anyway when bad things happened to him in Japan. He added that he was sure the high court decision would go in his favor, but it was no good. He said he bought the cups of sake to deal with the pain.

(Japanese original by Yuki Miyatake, Photo Group)