Chloé Jafé spent seven years immersed in the world of the Japanese mafia, photographing yakuza women: wives, mistresses, sisters, and daughters. Born in France in 1984 into a family of photographers, she studied photography at Central Saint Martins in London before moving to Japan. She is the author of the Sakasa Trilogy: I Give You My Life, Okinawa Mon Amour, and How I Met Jiro. Curled up in the armchair in our office, she recounts, calmly and captivatingly, the extraordinary story of her involvement with the Japanese underworld.
Hannah Starman: How did you come up with the idea for I Give You My Life, your photo book about women?
Chloé Jafé: It’s a project that began as a fantasy, an idea not particularly grounded in reality since it took everyone by surprise: to have the idea in the first place, and then to come back with enough material to turn it into a book. I’d already travelled to Japan twice. The first time I was in my early twenties and went with a friend, almost by chance. I was immediately fascinated by this country that I didn’t understand. Everything was different – the language, the smells, the sounds, the gestures. That sense of strangeness captivated me. Years later, I went back to Japan to work on my end-of-year project at the Saint Martin’s School in London. When I returned from that second trip, I was completely obsessed. I’d go and see Japanese films in independent cinemas every week. I read Japanese books. Eventually, I moved to Japan and stayed there for seven years.
Hannah Starman: Did the subject matter emerge after you’d already spent some time in Japan, or did you go there with the intention of carrying out this project?
Chloé Jafé: During my previous trips to Japan, I saw a lot of the surface-level aspects, which were very appealing. But I wanted to go deeper. While doing research after returning to France and later in England, I realised there was very little out there about yakuza women. There are plenty of films about the yakuza; the genre is, strangely enough, quite popular, even in Japan. As for the women, they were portrayed in a series of films that began in the late 1980s, entitled Gokudo no Onnatachi (Yakuza Women),and I immediately became fascinated by the subject. But I wondered whether these women really existed and what their lives were like. From this line of questioning, the project I Give You My Life, about yakuza women, was born. I probably also recognised a bit of myself in these women. In any case, I felt a sense of urgency to carry out this project.
Hannah Starman: Did you speak Japanese?
Chloé Jafé: I’d started taking evening classes in London, but I learnt most of it in Japan. For me, it was unthinkable to do this work without speaking the language, but I also had no choice but to learn it, as I couldn’t find any interpreters willing to help me. At first, I’d spoken to a few acquaintances about accompanying me, but nobody wanted to get involved. So, I took lessons every day in Japan, from the moment I arrived, for a month. After that, I couldn’t afford them any longer, so I carried on learning in bars and just going about my daily life. I also had a Japanese boyfriend who didn’t speak English. That helped a lot.
Hannah Starman: There are several Japanese names for the yakuza. Why is that?
Chloé Jafé: The term ‘yakuza’ is actually the combination 8, 9, 3, which is a losing hand in a very old and rather complicated Japanese card game called Hanafuda. The Japanese call the mafia ‘yakuza’, but it’s a pejorative term because it implies they are losers. The police and the media refer to them as ‘boryokudan’, which translates as ‘violent group’. They call themselves ‘gokudo’. Literally, the term means ‘the extreme path’ or ‘the ultimate path’, but its meaning has evolved: from a spiritual concept, it has become a term used to describe members of organised crime. Before all these vices took hold, the yakuza followed a code of honour similar to that of the samurai and were driven by a desire to take from the rich and give to the poor, much like modern-day Robin Hoods.
Hannah Starman: How did you meet your first yakuza?
Chloé Jafé: I arrived in Japan in 2012 with this project in mind. I had a few friends in Japan, but no sources or connections. I tried knocking on several doors – journalists and others who might be able to help me – but as soon as I mentioned the project, even tentatively, the door would slam shut. I quickly realised I should be careful about who I talked to about the subject, and above all, I realised just how taboo it was. You weren’t even supposed to utter the word ‘yakuza’, at least not in public. For two years, I faced nothing but setbacks. A few months after my bag was stolen from the bar where I was working as a hostess, I went to the Sanja Matsuri festival. It’s a huge, very well-known festival – the only Shinto festival where yakuza are allowed to show their tattoos in public for a weekend. I told myself this was my last chance and that, if it didn’t work out, I’d give up on the project.
Hannah Starman: And you made a breakthrough…
Chloé Jafé: It was like something out of a film! On the second day, I was tired, it was sweltering, and I ended up getting lost in a street. I was looking for the underground, took out my phone, drank some water, sat down on the ground and took a break in the middle of a crowd. Then I saw this man in a kimono walking in front of me, flanked by bodyguards. He greeted me and invited me to have a beer with them. I had no idea who he was, but I accepted. I found myself sitting between this man in a kimono and another man who asked me if I realised where I was. He showed me his police badge and told me I was sitting next to a high-ranking yakuza boss. I’d forgotten that corruption in Japan made this sort of farcical situation possible. I told myself that this man was my sesame and that I absolutely had to win him over.
Hannah Starman: How did you gain his trust?
Chloé Jafé: I already spoke a little Japanese, and my experience as a hostess had given me a better understanding of gender relations in Japanese society. I was 34, and he was 40 years older than me. In fact, he was the same age as the customers I used to serve at the bar. I knew how to chat with men like that and play along with their jokes, which were sometimes a bit salacious. We exchanged business cards, and I decided to send him some photos of the festival. It was a pretext for making a connection. Then I invited him to dinner – something women in Japan absolutely never do. That must have intrigued him, because he accepted. Half an hour before the appointed time, he was already there, with his bodyguards. To make sure I didn’t get my Japanese wrong, I’d prepared a letter explaining my intentions for my project. He found it amusing. I paid the bill, which isn’t done either— even less so with a yakuza boss. He must have thought I was completely bonkers. The next time, he invited me. He took me out for fugu, a fish that contains a sack of deadly poison, 1,000 times more potent than potassium cyanide. Chefs spend at least ten years learning how to prepare it, as fugu that’s cooked incorrectly is fatal. Eating fugu with a yakuza was a real test of courage. I think he was testing me to find out who I was, what my intentions were, and to gauge my patience and perseverance. Little by little, he opened doors for me. I met his wife and daughters, and through them I gained access to other yakuza wives.
Hannah Starman: After that meeting, you remained in that mafia circle for five years. What was your role there?
Chloé Jafé: I felt that, by the end of my time in Japan, I certainly had a place within the ‘boss’s’ family. We saw each other very often, and I was invited to family celebrations. In Japan, New Year has religious significance, a bit like Christmas here, and it’s a real family celebration. When the ‘boss’s’ wife invited me along, I felt I was ‘part of the family’. Of all the women I met and photographed, she was the last one to trust me. I understand her. I was spending time with her husband, and she didn’t know why – were we flirting, was I interested in his money, his power, or something else? I think she realised that I was sincere and that I loved them. Two or three years ago, when I went back to the Sanja Matsuri festival, the ‘boss’ gave me the festival jacket with the group’s name on it. When the wife of another senior boss came to join us, the ‘boss’s’ wife introduced me as if I were her own daughter. That made me incredibly happy.
Hannah Starman: Were you aware of the danger posed by this project and your association with the yakuza?
Chloé Jafé: For years, I didn’t realise the danger. But that’s just as well – otherwise I wouldn’t have done it. There was an element of youthful recklessness in my approach. And I was also angry with men. I probably also needed to challenge myself, to prove that I was capable of standing up to those men. After two years with no progress at all, I got a job as a hostess in a bar. You should know that this has nothing to do with prostitution. It’s more like paid flirting, but it doesn’t go any further than that. Then I must have mentioned the yakuza to the wrong person, because one evening a girl posed as a hostess and walked off with my bag, my passport, my keys, my phone and my camera. Theft doesn’t exist in Japan. I realised then that I was being watched. My Japanese friends started to warn me, insistently. I was living on my own, and it was tough. I even went to the countryside for a while. But once I’d ‘settled in’ with the ‘boss’s’ entourage, I felt safe. I stayed in touch with the family after I returned to France. I did have the odd moment of doubt at airports, but overall I wasn’t worried. The ‘boss’ shielded me from situations and people who might have put me in danger. I believe our relationship was always based on mutual respect and kindness.
Hannah Starman: For the past fifteen years or so, the Japanese government has been waging a sustained battle against the yakuza. Have you observed this change?
Chloé Jafé: Of course. Today, the crackdown on the yakuza is akin to a witch-hunt. When I started working on my project in 2012, this was already the case, but in recent years they’ve been trying to wipe them out – and I’m choosing my words carefully. I’m not defending the mafia. Crime must be punished; that goes without saying. But the yakuza exclusion orders, for example, are designed to sever all ties between citizens and the yakuza, with the aim of excluding the latter completely and permanently from economic and social life. They have no right to exist. They are no longer allowed to work. I find it appalling that people in Japan are not given a second chance. Left with no opportunity to do anything else, they inevitably fall back into a life of crime. They cannot even leave the country. It’s difficult to obtain a passport to travel. And even if they were able to leave, they’re on the wanted lists in many countries. As a result, this has given rise to a growing wave of petty crime that is far less ‘controllable’. I’m not sure Japan is better off as a result.
Hannah Starman: You’ve done another book of photographs – How I Met Jiro – which focuses precisely on the people marginalised by Japanese society.
Chloé Jafé: Absolutely. It was a project that simply came to me. I found myself in Osaka, in a neighbourhood that’s been left out of Japanese tourist guides – a sort of ghetto where people, mostly men, live on the fringes of Japanese society. There you’ll find people who’ve left their old lives behind, severed their ties to their identity and social life in another city, and simply vanished. There are, of course, ex-convicts, people just out of prison, and people who, for various reasons, have cut themselves off from society and find themselves more or less on the streets or, at any rate, forced to take on odd jobs by the day, often in construction. There are lots of cheap little hotels with very basic amenities. In this microcosm, you also find a few women and a few foreign women. I met transgender people and those in transition. It’s a lawless ‘melting pot’. There are drugs, drunken men fighting, men dying in the street. I told myself there was something to be done. I felt it was unfair that these people were being ignored, that their humanity was being denied. It comes back to this idea of a second chance. I met Jiro, a 70-year-old retired yakuza from Osaka. We bonded straight away – a rather strong, father-daughter-like bond. He’d lost touch with his daughter. He was the same age as my father. He was worried to see me hanging about in that neighbourhood taking photos, so he took me under his wing.
Hannah Starman: Who are the women of yakuza and what is their status within the mafia?
Chloé Jafé: They are the wives, mistresses, sisters and daughters of yakuza members. They are heavily stigmatised, even completely erased, in Japan. Rié Alkemade, a researcher friend, wrote her thesis on them, entitled Outsiders Amongst Outsiders, and that’s exactly who they are. The women of yakuza are ostracised by society and bound by secrecy. At the same time, they are not regarded as yakuza either. They are not members of the organisations and have no official status within the mafia. Theoretically, they can leave; at least, no rule, written or unwritten, forbids them from doing so. But I think it’s a world that sticks to you, in every sense of the word. It’s not ‘impossible’ to start a new life once you’ve been part of that world, but it’s complicated.
Hannah Starman: Are they easily identifiable? By their tattoos, for example?
Chloé Jafé: I photographed the girls, the women, the mistresses of these men. Some of them have tattoos. These are tattoos that cover a large part of the body – most often the back – known as irezumi. They are therefore only visible in private, as they are not displayed in public. Japan has a certain sense of modesty, and when it comes to the body, what is shown or concealed is very different from the West. For example, the nape of the neck is considered extremely sexy. The ankles too. As for the cleavage, I won’t even go there. Legs, by contrast, are much more readily shown off. What’s interesting, incidentally, is that the wives of high-ranking officials tend not to get tattoos.
Hannah Starman: One of the women you photographed said she’d got a tattoo to protect herself.
Chloé Jafé: Yes, absolutely. She’s the daughter of a yakuza who grew up in that world. When you’re a tattooed woman in Japan – and we’re talking about traditional tattoos here – there’s a whole section of society, particularly men, who won’t approach you. It’s like a suit of armour. My work isn’t always well understood here, because in Western society, tattoos have a glamorous side, which isn’t the case at all in Japan. Tattoos are considered impure. That’s why people with tattoos are tolerated in sento – public baths using tap water – but banned from onsen, which are baths fed by pure spring water. With the number of tourists steadily increasing in recent years, some onsen have become less strict, but these remain the exception.
Hannah Starman: Is the ban on tattoos religious, as in Judaism?
Chloé Jafé: Although they have a bad reputation, tattoos are not officially banned. They were banned in 1872, during the Meiji era, when Japan opened up to the world. They were legalised again after the Second World War, under the influence of the American occupation.
The history of tattooing in Japan is very ancient and rich. In prehistoric times, tattooing was associated with rituals. It served as a symbol of social status or spiritual protection. These rites are poorly understood and regarded as a barbaric practice. Consequently, the arrival of Buddhism and Chinese influence in Japan damaged the reputation of tattooing. During the Edo period, tattoos were used to identify criminals. Prostitutes also had tattoos for aesthetic reasons, and this eventually became the hallmark of the yakuza. Since the Edo period, tattoos have been associated with the yakuza and regarded as impure.
Hannah Starman: Why did the yakuza start getting tattoos?
Chloé Jafé: Two reasons. On the one hand, it was a mark of strength and courage. On the other hand, it was a symbol of status and membership of an organisation. It showed that one was prepared to endure pain and that one had money. Tattoos were quite a luxury, and they were proud to show them off. The drawings are not linked to any particular group, although sometimes men working for a boss will have the group’s symbol or the boss’s name tattooed on their chest.
Hannah Starman: What prompted your decision to get a tattoo?
Chloé Jafé: I wasn’t particularly fascinated by tattoos to begin with. For nearly ten years, I was surrounded by tattooed people, and after spending so much time talking to these women and men, it seemed important to get one too, so I would know what I was talking about. I had it done just before I returned. Symbolically, it was very important: a sign of belonging, and a way to mark that period of my life. I needed to bring it to a close that way. I’d been thinking of getting a koi carp tattooed, or perhaps a dragon. My tattoo artist decided: ‘For you, it’ll be a dragon.’ In Japanese mythology, the koi carp turns into a dragon. Symbolically, the koi carp represents perseverance, but remains something unfinished. Just before returning to France, it was better to have a dragon. It’s a large tattoo covering my entire back, done using the traditional tebori method – entirely by hand. It takes hundreds of hours. You run such a high fever because your body fights back. It’s painful and, at the same time, strangely meditative. The relationship with the tattoo artist is unique. You talk a lot; you confide in each other during these moments of vulnerability, which also posed a certain danger for tattoo artists in Japan who inevitably tattooed some yakuza members. Because when it comes to the mafia, the less you know, the better.
Hannah Starman: Doesn’t the irreversible nature of a tattoo bother you?
Chloé Jafé: No, quite the opposite. I find the irreversible nature of a tattoo powerful and beautiful. After all, nothing lasts forever, not even life itself. And I believe that nowadays everything changes, everything is disposable, but you can’t dispose of your skin. A tattoo is a lifelong commitment. My dragon is on my back, so I can’t see it, but I know it’s there and that it’s watching over me. My tattoo artist has since become a monk. A Buddhist monk, because, with her tattoos, she can’t be a Shinto monk. She’s an incredible person. I remember her explaining to me that, for example, the dragon’s eye must be the last thing to be inked onto the skin, because it is by inking the eye that the dragon’s soul awakens. She said a prayer when she did it.
Hannah Starman: Were you tempted to stay in Japan? Was it difficult adjusting back to life in France?
Chloé Jafé: Yes, of course. It was hard coming back. When you spend so much time with someone or a group, it inevitably rubs off on you. And indeed, I was very attached to the noble values of the yakuza: respect, loyalty, honour. That can constitute a rather rigid normative framework, but it’s also noble. In any case, it doesn’t really fit in here. The culture shock was intense when I returned to France. I rediscovered and relearned things; I reconnected with my French identity. I also think that this association stigmatised me, and that’s one of the reasons why I returned to France. I faced a choice: either I let go and fully integrated into that world, or I went back and continued my life as a female photographer, free. Before I returned, I had a lover who was part of that world. In a way, it came as a shock to me when I realised: ‘Am I not, after all, becoming the very thing I came to look for?’
“With the kind permission of Chloé Jafé”
Hannah Starman
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