I remember

The Journey of a Genevan Lawyer Turned Cultural Bridge Between East and West

In this interview, a profound connoisseur of Japan recounts his unique life path — from a Geneva childhood shaped by illness and deep listening, to a life devoted to understanding a distant culture. From the poetry of tea to philosophical reflections on Eastern and Western notions of intelligence, he reveals how Japan has shaped his worldview, his sense of human connection, and his passion for transmission. An intimate and intellectual journey between two worlds.

– Could you tell me about your childhood? Was it a happy one?
– I was born into a family where my parents got married relatively late. My father, Jean, had studied medicine, and it wasn’t until he was 35 that he met my mother, Madeleine. They first had a son, my older brother Luc. My parents very much wanted a second child, but they went through a difficult time: they lost premature twins at seven months, who unfortunately didn’t survive. Two years later, I was born — four years after my brother.

I grew up in a very loving, close-knit household. My father was a doctor, and my mother worked alongside him as his medical assistant throughout their life together, which lasted over thirty years. My brother got into all sorts of mischief — the kind you'd read about in books — and I would watch him. I quickly realized that I didn’t need to get into trouble myself to learn the lesson!

All in all, I had a very happy childhood. I spent most of my time in the company of adults. I lost both of my grandmothers relatively early, but I was lucky to have both of my grandfathers in my life for quite some time. I had a particularly strong relationship with them, and a very warm one with my parents as well.

I was often ill as a child, which interrupted my schooling more than once. On two occasions, I was supposed to repeat the school year. Instead of doing that, I proposed something else. The first time, I asked if I could go to Germany to learn German — and so I spent six months in northern Germany, which turned out to be a wonderful experience, full of lasting memories.

The following year, once again, I fell ill. This time, I decided to go to England to learn English, and I spent five months there. After returning from Germany, I spoke German almost more fluently than French!

So, I completed all my studies, and eventually, I enrolled at the International School of Geneva to prepare for the federal maturity exam. And, against all odds, I passed it quite successfully in 1967 — I was 20 years old at the time.

That’s when the question arose. My father asked me, “What do you want to do next?”
Well, what did I want to do? I told him I wanted to go to art school — to learn how to do portrait work in two and three dimensions, meaning painting and sculpture.

And my father, very wisely, said to me:
“Look, Philippe, take a look around at the artists. There’s Alexandre Blanchet and his son Maurice, and Robert Hainard, the animal artist — all dear friends of the family. They all need a second or even a third job to make a living. I would really prefer that you choose a course of study that can lead to a stable income. Because in our family,” he said — and I should note that my brother was the eldest, so by principle it was up to him to take over — “in our family, there is a certain cultural level that must be maintained. And to maintain that, a regular income is necessary. So, think about it.”

So I did. I thought it over, and the next morning I went into my father’s office and said, “Listen, I’m interested in history, I’m interested in politics — I’ll study law.”
“Very good,” he replied.
And that’s how I ended up studying law.

At the same time, I was politically active. I ran for a seat in the Grand Conseil in 1969 and missed being elected by just 116 votes. After that, I joined my friends in the Zofingue Society — a student society that wears colors — and ultimately completed my degree with a law license, then began postgraduate legal studies. Eventually, I received a scholarship from the Japanese government and left for Japan in October 1973.

That’s a rough outline of how things went. I was a child who wasn’t into sports at all — I was terrible, actually. I was also dyslexic, which didn’t make studying easier, but in the end, it didn’t turn out to be such a major handicap. What interested me most was adult conversation. I loved listening to adults conversations.

There was this small group of gentlemen — friends of both my grandfathers — who called themselves either “the Gracious” or “the Grumblers,” depending on their mood. Among them was Georges Barbey, the explorer, and others. I spent wonderful moments listening to their conversations — those talks opened me up to the world.

My brother, from time to time, got into trouble and did foolish things — but those were his, not mine.

I was also quite active in the Republic. Early on, I came to a realization. My great-great-grandfather, Melchior Neeser, spoke only his Aargau dialect — a variant of Swiss German. In order for the generation of my grandfather René to communicate with him, my great-grandfather Fritz had to translate. That made me understand very early on that I was a mix of Swiss blood from all different cantons, and that I needed to master both High German and the Swiss German dialects.

And I did — and it helped me enormously later in life.

It became one of the major influences on my path. Later on, when I became central president of Zofingue for all of Switzerland, I was able to visit all the sections — Bern, Basel, Zurich, St. Gallen, Lucerne, and so on — and I could converse in Swiss German with my fellow members. That helped a great deal.

And when I was looking for a job, after spending a year and a half in Japan, it was my fluency in both German and Swiss German that allowed me to be hired by Ciba-Geigy at the time — to create their legal department in Japan.

So that, in a nutshell, is part of my journey.

– How would you describe the city of Geneva during your youth?
– Geneva, in my youth, was... already a city marked by a spirit of protest and revolution. Geneva has always had this undercurrent — one revolution after another. It started in the 18th century, continued into the 19th, and even in the 1960s, that spirit was still very much alive. I was at university in 1968, right in the middle of it all. There were demonstrations against the Americans in Vietnam, the nearby French events influenced us greatly, and the university itself was in turmoil. So yes, Geneva was already very animated, very engaged. You could feel it was not a passive city — it reacted, it thought, it moved.

– And do you have any special anecdotes about your parents or siblings?
– Oh, many… For example, there’s a season in Geneva — especially in November and December — when the sky is completely covered in low, heavy clouds. My father had Thursdays off — he didn’t take patients on that day — and I didn’t have school either. So, on those grey, gloomy Thursdays, he would take us by car and drive up to Mount Salève. We’d rise above the clouds and suddenly find ourselves in the sun, in the light. The sky would be a brilliant blue, the sun shining, and the whole Alpine panorama stretched before us — from the Bernese Alps to the mountains of the Tarentaise. For two hours or so, we’d bask in this beauty, in the silence, in the sunlight. And then, chilled by the mountain air, we’d slowly return below the cloud cover. But we had filled ourselves with light — with that blue sky we missed so much down in the city.

My father was a physician, but also a man of many passions: a botanist, an ornithologist, a lover of nature, of history, of literature… He passed on to us this curiosity for the natural world and for culture. On Sundays, when mushrooms were in season, we’d often go mushroom hunting. We also went on what Genevans call “piques-meurons”: crossing the border to pick wild blackberries in the Savoie region. These were joyful excursions, often shared with friends of my parents.

I think of Carlo Poluzzi, the miniaturist, or Father Pernoud, an eminent mycologist, a true mushroom expert — both long-time friends of my parents. I loved being around them. What they talked about was always fascinating. For me, it was a window into the adult world — cultured, curious, and so full of life.

– What local traditions or customs did you take part in?
– I was first educated in a private school called Brechbuhl, up until fifth grade. Then my parents enrolled me in a public school — I did my sixth grade at Casemates, and my teacher there was René Zwahlen. He was the one who introduced me to the Compagnie de 1602. At the time, he served as the schoolchildren’s leader for the 1602 parade, and he encouraged me to join. Thanks to him — and with him as my sponsor — I became part of the Compagnie de 1602 and took part in the historical procession for several years.

You see, there’s no Geneva without l’Escalade, right? Just as there’s no Geneva without June 1st and the patriotic ceremony at the Port Noir. I always participated in these commemorations — they were part of the rhythm of life here, of our civic culture.

– What were your dreams or ambitions when you were a teenager?
– Around the age of 14, I developed a strong interest in Japan — oddly enough, it began through French literature. From that moment on, I spent part of my pocket money on books — French or English translations of Japanese literature. By the time I was 20, I had read nearly everything that had been translated at the time, from the earliest texts of the 8th century to the most contemporary novels of the 20th century.

I had a deep desire to go and see Japan for myself — to experience what was behind these books. One of my cousins on my father's side, Jean-François Billeter, was already passionate about China and Japan. He left for China before the Cultural Revolution, and came back — married, and with many stories. So I’d hear about these faraway places through him.

That was also the time when the Baur Collection — the Musée Baur — opened its doors in Geneva. Suddenly, we had these exquisite pieces of Asian art right before our eyes: Chinese ceramics, Japanese objects... That, too, fueled my fascination and strengthened my longing to travel to the Far East and discover it for myself.

– And you met your grand-father too, didn’t you?
– Yes, I was lucky to know both of my grand-fathers quite well. What’s interesting is that both of them were what we call in good French self-made men.

On my father's side, my grandfather Neeser was the eldest of nine children. My grandmother Jaccottet was the second daughter in a family of ten. There was even a double marriage between the two families: one of my grandfather’s younger sisters married the youngest brother of my grandmother. That couple were the parents of the poet Philippe Jaccottet.

My grandfather Neeser had a remarkable career. He was awarded two honoris causa doctorates, from the ETH Zurich and the EPFL in Lausanne. He founded a Geneva-based company, Ateliers des Charmilles SA, which manufactured turbines and supplied them worldwide, including to most of Switzerland’s hydroelectric power plants.

On my mother’s side, there’s another inspiring story. My grandfather Alcide-Édouard Pidoux left school at the age of 12 due to want of financial means. His father, Charles-Alcide, was a policeman. With a brother and a sister, there wasn’t enough money for further education. He started out as an errand boy in a wealth management firm. By the age of 36, he was a partner. At 40, he was running the bank on his own. A brilliant rise, based on intelligence, discipline, and perseverance.

Both of these men were role models for me — demanding ones, difficult to match, but deeply inspiring. When my grandfather Pidoux turned 65, he handed over control of the bank to his son and said: “Until now, I haven’t had time to educate myself. Now I’m going to do it.” He began reading, travelling to Italy and Greece… He was an exceptional man. He died of an accident at 86. I had a wonderful relationship with both my grandfathers.

– So your grandparents were originally from Geneva?
– Not exactly. On the Neeser side, the origins are mixed: Aargau, Jura and Neuchâtel, at the generation of my great-grandfather. My grandmother Neeser, born Jaccottet, was fully Vaudoise, from Moudon and nearby villages.

On my mother’s side, my great-grandfather Pidoux came from Villars-le-Comte in the canton of Vaud. My maternal grandmother, Jeanne Rambal, descended from Huguenot refugees who arrived in Geneva after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. It’s through her that I have Genevan roots by marriages — roots that, as I like to say, go back to that glorious time when all Genevans were Catholic, meaning before the Reformation.

So, it’s a very Swiss mix: a bit of German, a touch of Dutch, some French… but fully integrated. And on my mother’s side, a strong Calvinist tradition, deeply rooted.

– What were the respective roles of your father and mother in the family?
– My father was a man of great gentleness. He was probably one of the best doctors in the Republic, but he had no personal ambition. His mentor — or rather his mentors in clinical medicine — especially Maurice Roch, used to say of him: "Neeser is like a sailboat with more keels than sails." In other words, he had great stability and deep knowledge, but lacked the ambition to rise to the top. I believe Maurice Roch would have liked my father to succeed him as head of clinic, or to become professor. But my father simply wasn’t interested.

My mother, on the other hand, played an essential role in family decisions. She managed all the administrative work of the family medical practice. She also had this extraordinary ability to always see the bright side of things. When my father passed away — he wasn’t yet 72 — my mother said to my brother and me: "Children, I was married to your father for 35 years. I assisted him as a medical assistant for 35 years. 35 plus 35 makes 70 — 70 years of happiness."
That was my mother. And with parents like that, it’s hard not to want to follow their example, isn’t it?

– What advice from your father or grandparents do you still hold on to today?
– First of all, I would say: knowing your roots, and respecting what we have received from one another. That’s why, here in my home, I’m surrounded by family portraits. I know them all by name. Every morning, when I enter my living room, I greet them with a "Good morning, everyone," often with a deep sense of gratitude for everything they passed down to me. And then, I try, as much as possible, to pass things on in my turn — just as I’ve done in other parts of my life, for instance through my passion for Japan.

– If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about your brother… He took his own life, didn’t he?
– Yes… My brother’s story is a whole chapter in itself.
He was brilliant, truly brilliant. Intelligent, sharp, remarkably insightful. But to put it accurately, there’s an English phrase that fits: he was too clever for his own good. He was too intelligent… sometimes to his own detriment.

I also believe he inherited, probably through his DNA, a tendency toward depression. In our family, on the Neeser side, several members in the family tree have struggled with depression.
Luc, my brother, unfortunately, chose to end his life. He committed suicide at the age of 50.
He was married and left behind two children.
Just last night, I was at my sister-in-law’s 70th birthday party. My nephew and his partner ( they’ve been together for ten years now), my niece and her husband were there, all lovely as ever. It was a touching moment.

My brother had an absolutely phenomenal sense of humor. I still miss him, just as I still miss my father.
I was with my mother until she was 90. She passed away fully lucid, and that was beautiful and dignified. But my father left us far too early. And Luc… I miss him deeply.

– Did you have important conversations with your brother that you often remember?
– Yes, of course. Although not as often as I would have liked.
Since 1973, I was living mostly in Japan, so we didn’t see each other much. But he came to Japan three times, and each time, we had meaningful talks.
After our father’s death, we worried a lot about our mother. She lived alone in a large apartment — it wasn’t very practical, but she didn’t want to move. She wanted to stay in her home.

And here’s something I deeply regret. I’m someone who can usually recognize medical conditions in others, and I had realized that my brother was probably suffering from bipolar disorder — those intense emotional highs and lows, those cycles.
I advised him to consult my doctor, someone I trusted and had spoken to about him.
But he never did.

When he was 50, he told me something heartbreaking: “Anxiety grips me from the moment I wake up and doesn’t leave me until I fall asleep.”
I believe his life was marked by profound inner suffering.
And I truly understand those who decide to end their lives.
I understand that decision. But the suicide of a beloved one is something no one can ever really prepare for. And for those left behind, it’s an immense trauma.

– What would you say to people going through a similar tragedy?
– I believe the key word is sharing. It might not sound very original, but over time, I’ve developed a kind of arithmetic of human emotions.
If I place two units of my happiness on the table, and you place two units of yours, the sum is not four — it becomes five, maybe even six. And if you lay down two units of your sorrow, your despair, and I do the same, the total isn't four either — it’s three, or even two and a half.
Because when we share our joy, it grows. And when we share our suffering, it becomes lighter. That’s why, to me, sharing is essential.

– Has this approach changed the way you see life, intimacy, or mental health?
– Yes, deeply.
At the time, I had already moved away from the Christian faith. But I was beginning to explore Buddhism — just a beginning, a first understanding.
And that’s what helped me get through that period — because for two whole weeks, my brother’s body hadn’t been found. Two weeks of waiting, of suspended grief.

What got me through was reciting the Heart Sutra, what is called Hannya Shingyō in Japanese. That chanting held me up. I had to stay strong — for my mother, for my sister-in-law, for the children. If I collapsed, there would be nothing left for them to lean on.

So I stood firm. And I believe that’s what helped me cross that storm of grief.

But I later realized that, in order to keep going, I had buried my emotions. I had placed a kind of lid over them, perhaps unconsciously.

Then, a few years later, I lost a dear friend — who also ended his life.
We were supposed to travel to Japan together in October. He took his own life on April 8. And that sudden, brutal end awakened all the feelings I had locked away inside me.

I fell into a deep depression that lasted a year and a half.
What saved me was being listened to — being heard — by a remarkable psychiatrist, a gentle and wise woman who took care of me. With her, I could finally open up. I could share.
And through that sharing process, little by little, I came out of darkness.

– Is there something you would like to say to him today, if you had the chance?
– I would simply say: I love you. I believe that’s the most important thing. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty for not having been able to help him more. But depression is such a complex illness that it’s very, very difficult to help someone overcome it. I experienced this myself a few years later, and I was fortunate to meet a remarkable doctor, a woman who truly listened to me with great kindness, and thanks to her, I was able to get through it.

– For example, if you had noticed signs before his suicide, what advice would you have given?
– I sensed he was struggling, and I advised him to see the doctor I recommended, hoping that a more appropriate treatment might help him, or that he would at least start following it properly. The problem is, patients don’t always stick to their treatment, and that makes the situation extremely difficult. But truly, for me, the key word is sharing. You need to find someone to talk to, someone who listens — really listens, actively. That’s rare, but that’s where you find true friends and loved ones you can rely on.

– In your opinion, how should society talk about suicide to break the taboo and encourage understanding?
– That’s exactly the problem with the legislation currently being proposed in France regarding assisted suicide. The French often use the term euthanasia, which is not the right word here. Euthanasia refers to an act carried out by a third party to end an unbearable situation, like when an old or sick pet is put to sleep to end its suffering. It’s not the same thing.
I find the situation in Switzerland much more open on this issue, especially thanks to organizations like Exit, or Dignitas in German-speaking Switzerland — meaning “death with dignity.”
The support I was able to provide to our friend Laurence Deonna taught me a lot about this. I believe we should talk more openly about these situations, but often, out of modesty, discretion, or because we carry sadness and grief within us, we choose to remain silent.
For me, once again, sharing is the key.

– Do you have any rituals or special moments to keep the memory of your parents alive?
– No formal rituals, but I carry their memory with me every day. For example, today happens to be Mother’s Day, a Sunday like this one. Yesterday, I bought a rose and placed it in the vase just behind you, and I lit three incense sticks which I offer with my thoughts, celebrating their memory. Their memory comes back to me several times a day, very vividly.
What’s wonderful is meeting people who knew them, with whom I can share memories — again, sharing. Sharing in joy, in gratitude. For me, the feeling of gratitude is a bit like an enzyme, to borrow a chemistry image: it transforms grief, sadness, and pain into a kind of happiness. It’s through recognizing what we have received that we find strength.
This helps me every day, truly. And I try to share this feeling with people I meet who are suffering because they too are going through their own grief.

– You lived in Japan for over thirty years. You are an expert on Japanese culture and speak the language fluently. How did Japan become a land of destiny for you? How did it all start?
– The story is a bit long and complicated, so please excuse me in advance. The little boy from Geneva that I am was raised in a Protestant canton. Had I been born in a Catholic canton like Valais, Fribourg, or Lucerne, Japan would have entered my history book in the 16th century, with the first Catholic mission led by Saint Francis Xavier, who arrived in Japan in 1549 and left in 1551.
But since I was born a Protestant, Japan entered our history much later, around 1853-1854, with the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry and his Black Ships (Kurobune), which forced Japan to open commercially to the West.
When I first discovered Japan through French literature, I was fourteen years old. At that time, Japan was not yet in my history or geography textbooks.
Jean-François Billeter, whose mother was a cousin of my father, was studying literature in Geneva and was eight years older than me. He used to come home once a week and was already talking about Japan and China.
It was also around the time when the Baur Museum opened in Geneva, about sixty years ago this year.
That’s how my interest in Japan started to grow. The more I read translations, the more I thought: this is wonderful! And I wondered what it must be like in the original language.
My desire to learn Japanese quickly became strong. I took classes in Geneva at the Consulate General, about an hour and a half twice a month. But in an environment that was 95% French-speaking and 4-5% English-speaking, it was hard to retain anything: it would go in one ear and out the other.
I had to finish my studies, and then I discovered there was a Japanese government scholarship — four per year for Swiss students. I applied, got one, and on October 22, 1973, I arrived in Tokyo.

— And what was your very first culture shock?
— Well, I had read so much about Japan, from ancient to contemporary Japan, that when I arrived, I wasn’t really expecting a major culture shock. The first real shock I remember was landing at Haneda Airport in Tokyo, in October. Mount Fuji already had its white peak, like a pristine snow cap. It was magnificent, visible from 2,500 meters high. But then, as we approached Tokyo, we hit a dense cloud of pollution, almost a brick-red color — truly nasty. Entering that haze, Mount Fuji completely disappeared. I can still see that image as clearly as if it were yesterday. Back then, in major city intersections, there were even oxygen pumps with masks for pedestrians, so they could catch their breath. That was Japan at the time. Today, that pollution cloud is gone.
I worked for 30 years in an office in Tokyo, on the 34th floor of a beautiful building called the World Trade Center Building, or Kokusai Boeki Senta. On windy days, you could see Mount Fuji on the horizon for more than half the year. Thanks to what they call “administrative guidance,” the Japanese government gradually forced the industry to adopt drastic measures to reduce air pollution. And they succeeded. It’s really remarkable — hats off to them.

— What exactly were you doing in Japan? What kind of projects or activities were you involved in?
— Well, I had no barrister’s qualification and no professional experience, but I was a tall Swiss from the French-speaking region — 1.87 meters at the time — and I spoke German, English, Swiss German, and Japanese. I was hired by Ciba-Geigy, then one of the largest Swiss and global pharmaceutical companies, to create their legal department in Japan. Before me, they had tried twice: once with a Fürsprecher from Bern, , and once with a lawyer from New York — both attempts failed. Finally, they hired “the little Swiss guy” who spoke Japanese, thinking, “Let’s give this a shot.” And it worked, because that “little Swiss guy” had the patience and enough Japanese to build and refine his skills. In short, it worked.

— In your opinion, what are the unique features of the Japanese language and learning it?
— To begin with, I’ll quote Nicolas Bouvier, who himself quoted Saint Francis-Xavier, the 16th-century Jesuit who wrote to Rome that “the Japanese language was invented by the Devil to prevent the preaching of the Gospel.” That shows how Xavier, who had no dictionary, no grammar, and had to rely on an interpreter who spoke a little Portuguese, had no real tools to learn the language. I can only imagine the misunderstandings that must have resulted!
There’s a famous film, Lost in Translation, that illustrates just how difficult communication could be. Personally, I had the privilege of taking an intensive six-month Japanese course at Osaka University of Foreign Studies. I can say that our Japanese teachers weren’t always suited to teaching Japanese to adult foreigners. They were used to teaching Japanese children, whereas we adults already had a different intellectual foundation. There could’ve been a better method.
For example, I discovered much later that the Chinese characters used in Japanese (kanji) can be analyzed, and their pronunciation guessed based on their components and structure. It’s very technical, but fascinating.
Learning was hard: 26 hours of classes per week, and we came out exhausted. I had a French classmate, Maciejewski, who managed to memorize all 2,000 commonly used Chinese characters in six months. I didn’t get that far, but I worked hard, with a good memory and applied intelligence. Japanese is a difficult language, no doubt.
But beyond the linguistic challenge, it’s a language that reflects the country’s social structure. Its use is almost “feudal.” In Japanese society, you rarely have equals, or only very few. There are people to whom you owe respect, and others who receive less, especially if you’re still young. There are different levels of language depending on whom you're speaking to. When I was learning, there was even a distinct feminine and masculine way of speaking — differences that have mostly disappeared today.
The language remains very sophisticated: when speaking about oneself, you use humble forms; when talking about others, you use respectful language. To truly master Japanese, you must understand its society with its social classes — almost a form of strict hierarchy, though I wouldn’t use the term “caste.” If you don’t absorb that mindset, learning is full of pitfalls.
To end, I’d like to praise myself: I had the privilege of serving as Deputy Head of the Swiss Pavilion at the 2005 World Expo in Aichi. This gave me the extraordinary opportunity to personally guide — for exactly 35 minutes, not a second more or less — the Emperor (now Emeritus) of Japan and Empress Michiko through the pavilion. I think I did quite well, using the most polite and appropriate language, while still being clear in my explanations. I even gave them a poem at the end. It was an outstanding experience, and I thank Heaven for such a chance.

— In the end, what would you say is the golden rule for learning a new language? What advice would you give someone who wants to start?
There is certainly one golden rule: learn writing at the same time as reading — and especially in the local script. I can tell you a funny little anecdote about this. One of my bosses in Tokyo was learning Japanese with a well-bred lady, but only using Roman letters.
One day, he left home without an umbrella. When he arrived at Shinagawa station, it was pouring rain. He went into a large store — the Keihin Department Store — to buy one. The Japanese word for umbrella is kasa, written in Roman letters as k-a-s-a.
My dear boss, taught by this lady, thought he should add an honorific “o” in front and asked the staff for an oke-sa kudasai, pronouncing kasa the American way — which came out as ke-sa. The employees were completely confused. A young woman came to help but got nervous and was replaced by a young man who also didn’t understand. Frustrated, my friend mimed the action of opening an umbrella.
And the employee said, “Ah, kasa desu ka? Ah, wakatta! Tadaima!” He had finally made himself understood.
The correct word was kasa, without the honorific “o,” and definitely not kesa. Kesa could refer to part of a Buddhist priest’s robe, but that’s clearly not what he wanted.
That’s why the rule is: learn the script along with the language. It forces you to pronounce words correctly and prevents you from simply reading words as if they were in your native language — which often leads to mistakes.
Another good method is to buy a television and spend as much time as possible watching programs — ideally intelligent ones, which isn’t always the case — to build your vocabulary and learn new expressions. For me, NHK was an excellent teacher.

What is the main misconception Europeans have about Japanese culture?
Well, there are many people who spend three weeks in Japan and write a big book about the country... Those people didn’t really understand much. On the other hand, my friend Richard Collasse, who was the CEO of Chanel in Japan for 40 years, wrote a 700-page "Dictionnaire amoureux du Japon" — now that is solid work.

Among the many admirable qualities of the Japanese, there is their resilience — that is, patience and courage in the face of adversity. Japan is a country exposed to recurrent natural disasters: volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunamis, typhoons... In short, a powerful and harsh nature that the Japanese deeply respect. Shintoism, the religion of the gods, invites people to honor and respect these natural forces.

I experienced this personally during the Kobe-Osaka earthquake on January 17, 1995 — it was a Tuesday at dawn. I remember it as if it were yesterday. That earthquake showed me how the Japanese face nature’s cruelty. Fortunately, it occurred around 5:55 a.m. Had it struck at 8:30 or 9:00, the human toll would have been much worse: instead of 6,000 to 7,000 deaths, we would have mourned 250,000 to 300,000 victims. At that time, all the Japanese would have been awake, commuting, with full gas tanks for the week… It would have caused massive traffic jams and fires… I dare not imagine the horror, and it was already terrible as it was.

In your opinion, what cannot be translated from Japanese — not linguistically, but culturally?
Excellent question! For example, the Japanese use very specific expressions in daily life. When starting a meal, people say itadakimasu, which literally means "I humbly receive." It's a way to thank the host, the heavens, and life for the meal. Some even put their hands together when saying itadakimasu.

At the end of a meal, they say gochisō-sama deshita, a phrase of gratitude that means "it was a feast," even if the meal was simple.

When someone helps you or works for you, you can say gokurō-sama, which means "thank you for your hard work." The go and sama are honorifics, and kurō means “hard effort.” For someone deserving more respect, one would say otsukaresama, which means "you must be tired," in recognition of their effort.

These cultural nuances are very difficult to express in French, because they convey a deeply codified sense of respect and gratitude.

This phenomenon isn’t unique to Japanese, though. Even among European languages, there are untranslatable words that carry specific emotions or ideas. For example, in English, the word togetherness evokes the warmth of being together, of shared intimacy. In German, gemütlich refers to something pleasant, cozy, warm — and there’s no exact equivalent in French.

These little linguistic treasures are what make each language so rich and unique, and that’s what makes it so precious.

How has Japan changed over the last 30 years? What has disappeared, and what has remained?
To understand these changes, we have to go back to the post-war period: entire cities like Tokyo and Hiroshima were in ruins. The Japanese people had to rebuild everything with admirable resilience. The population doubled in half a century, and lifestyles changed radically.

In the past, three generations often lived under the same roof, allowing traditions to be passed down from grandparents to grandchildren. Today, that model is rare, especially in cities. This has led to a gradual loss of family and cultural traditions.

Another issue: the 1947 Constitution made Japan officially secular. Teachers are not allowed to teach religion, which makes it difficult to understand Japanese history, which is deeply tied to Shintoism and Buddhism.

Finally, there’s a lack of awareness of recent history. For example, some young Japanese are unaware of the suffering their country caused in Korea and China. This denial hinders regional dialogue. Unlike Germany and Poland, Japan has not initiated a shared-memory process with its neighbors.

Today, Japan is pacifist, but faced with new geopolitical threats, it must rearm. To understand this complexity, one must read, study, and be willing to examine the past.

What thoughts or emotions go through your mind when you’re in Hiroshima or Nagasaki?
Nagasaki was my first contact with the atomic bomb, and that dates back to when I was still a student. Later, thanks to my friendship with Benoît Junod, I had the honor of being invited to the inauguration of the monument dedicated to Dr. Marcel Junod in Hiroshima, in front of the Peace Park. That was in October 1979, I believe. Since then, I’ve participated in the centennial celebration of Marcel Junod’s birth, notably by accompanying a Geneva music corp in Hiroshima, where musicians performed in front of the monument, in the presence of the Swiss ambassador to Tokyo, with a floral wreath laid at the cenotaph, etc.

So I’ve had many opportunities to visit Hiroshima and to explore the atomic bomb museum — experiences that were always profoundly moving.

Later on, a friend explained to me, during a meeting of the Swiss-Japanese Association in Geneva, the reasons behind the use of both bombs. They were of different technologies, and the Americans wanted to test the second one after Hiroshima. In fact, the dropping of the first bomb would have been enough to push Japan to surrender. Yet they dropped the second on Nagasaki.

Whether it was a war crime or a crime against humanity, it doesn’t really matter — today, international law is in a state of decay, if not completely dead. When we look at what’s happening in Gaza and Israel, in the Middle East, or the Russian invasion of Ukraine, we see that this law is no longer enforced. It only applies to the weak — the great powers simply don’t care. Those who should be tried for war crimes are not even brought to justice. It’s a sad world we live in.

For example, in Japanese schools, how do teachers explain history to children? Especially sensitive periods like the war?
I didn’t attend school in Japan, so I can’t speak firsthand. But every year, when I read Japanese or English-language newspapers, I always get the same impression. On August 6, 1945, the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima — and it’s often presented as an isolated event, without reference to the broader context of the war. There’s a kind of significant partial amnesia, forgetting that Japan was at war with China and other Asian countries, that they conquered Singapore, Vietnam, and more from the late 1930s and early 1940s.

In almost every Japanese family, a father, uncle, or grandfather was lost in those battles. Today, it’s been more than 80 years since the war ended, so we’re mostly talking about grandfathers or great-grandfathers who fought on those Asian fronts. It was a slaughter, a terrible horror. Unfortunately, I don’t think this reality is well understood or sufficiently passed on to younger generations.

In Japanese schools, are the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki presented as solely the responsibility of the United States, or is the history taught in a more nuanced way?
No, it’s not presented simplistically. It’s a complex issue, tied to deep cultural differences. For example, Confucius said: "Why rebel against the inevitable?" — which reflects a certain acceptance of history as it is. Japan itself provoked the United States by attacking Pearl Harbor, an act that played a key role in bringing the Americans into the war.

In Judeo-Christian culture, we swing between vengeance ("an eye for an eye") and forgiveness, while in Asian culture, an enemy can quickly become an ally. There’s also the idea of the weaker attacking the stronger when cornered (proverb: “the trapped rat bites the cat”).

Some believe the United States knew about Pearl Harbor and allowed it to happen in order to justify going to war. These are just theories, of course.

Compared to Germany after the Shoah, Japan has not made the same mea culpa for the atrocities committed in China or Korea. The word hansei (reflection on one's faults) exists in Japanese, but it has not been applied in as deep a way. There may have been a kind of tacit agreement with Mao’s China not to revisit those crimes.

The Koreans and Chinese, however, have not forgotten and continue to preserve the memory of those horrors. This lack of historical recognition continues to weigh on Japan’s international relations. Today, faced with threats from China, North Korea, and the situation in Taiwan, Japan is rearming and seeking alliances, while remaining under the American nuclear umbrella.

– How do the Japanese experience pain, loss, and suffering, and is it different from the Western perspective?
It's difficult to answer simply, but the Japanese are probably more aware of the impermanence of things. Death, of course, is a painful separation, but in Asia, the idea of reincarnation existed even before the Buddha, and he never questioned it. The soul, accompanied by its karma, is reincarnated unless it reaches a sufficient level of enlightenment to enter nirvana.

In many Japanese homes, there's a Shinto altar for the deities—often in the kitchen—and a Buddhist altar, the butsudan, where memorial tablets or the kako-chō (register of the ancestors) are kept. People continue to speak to them: when leaving for school, a child will say “Itte kimasu” to the ancestors, and on returning, “Tadaima.” The dead remain close to the living.

Graves are visited regularly, for example at New Year, to thank the ancestors and ask for their protection. And there’s the festival of the dead, Obon, during which the spirits are symbolically brought back home for a few days before being sent off again with fire or floating lanterns. This connection with the dead exists throughout Asia.

I remember the death of my friend Mitsui, a painter with Shinto beliefs. After the Shinto ritual at home, we accompanied the body to the crematorium. His widow invited me to participate in the bone-gathering ritual: with their son Keishi, using wooden chopsticks, we placed the bones in the urn—from the feet to the atlas and axis, the last vertebrae. That moment moved me deeply. It was a way of accepting the end, of paying one last tribute. I then felt the immense loss of everything his mind contained—an irreparable loss, but also a last gesture of love.

Where I’m from, death is often hidden. When my friend Laurence died, she was quietly taken away in a black bag, and I never got the chance to say goodbye. I wish I could also have kept vigil with my father, as was done in the past. This contact with the deceased is gradually disappearing. In Japan, impermanence is more accepted, but the pain is the same—the emptiness, the sadness, the absence. In this, we are all the same.

As for religion, it's complex. If you ask a Japanese person if they are religious, they will often say no. The word “religion” (shūkyō) is modern. People used to speak of bukkyo (Buddhism), Shinto (way of the gods), or kirisutokyō (Christianity). Traditionally, the Japanese mix practices: Shinto for births and festivals, Buddhism for funerals.

In the 17th century, to avoid the spread of Christianity, every family had to be affiliated with a Buddhist temple or Shinto shrine. Even today, many are still registered in this way, but the distance is growing: some no longer wish to maintain a grave and request that their ashes be scattered. 90% of Japanese people are cremated.

We should also note the difference between Asian traditions and monotheistic religions (Judeo-Christian or Islamic), which are often more exclusive. In the West, religious practice is also evolving: there's a resurgence of religious weddings or baptisms, particularly in France.

But in Japan, religion is experienced more as culture than as exclusive faith. At birth, the child is presented at the Shinto shrine, and at ages 3, 5, and 7 (depending on gender), the Shichigosan festival is celebrated to thank the gods for their protection.

– They say “the wisdom of the East and the intelligence of the West.” Is that true?
I often say, a bit provocatively, that if René Descartes had been born Japanese, he would never have written Discourse on Method. He would have been born in a different context—without access to Greek, Roman, or scholastic culture, nor the Catholic tradition or the Bible, and without philosophical correspondences or meetings like the one with Queen Christina of Sweden. That shows how different European and Asian cultures are.

This doesn’t mean that Asia lacks intelligence: Chinese culture, with its thousands of years of development and the invention of writing characters, is clear proof of profound intelligence. But in Europe, we like to compartmentalize, saying, for example, that the West embodies intelligence and Asia spirituality—which is overly simplistic.

As for the Japanese synthesis of tradition and technology: the Japanese, curious islanders, long learned from China—architecture, medicine, etc. Later, they discovered Christianity but quickly rejected colonial missions, keeping only what was useful—like the firearms. After expelling the Portuguese Catholics, they traded with the Dutch, who were Protestant and commercially minded, and posed no colonial threat. Thanks to the Dutch, Japan discovered rangaku, Western science, and quickly mastered electricity, modern medicine, surgery, and more.

In the 19th century, Japanese lords like those of Satsuma and Saga developed advanced technologies: steam locomotives, modern cannons. The Japanese have always been eager for technological progress.

In my work, I often negotiated license agreements with Japanese companies, insisting on automatically receiving all technological improvements developed by the licensee for use outside of Japan—because these improvements stemmed from the technological “trunk” I had provided. The Japanese antitrust commission initially objected, but I explained that without this clause, the tree would be incomplete: you cannot exploit a branch without respecting the trunk. That clause became essential.

– Finally, is there a ritual or aspect of Japanese daily life that’s especially dear to you?
For me, the tea ceremony, or cha-no-yu, is a Japanese art that developed mainly from the 14th–15th century, tied to the spread of powdered green tea through Zen (Chan in Chinese). The Japanese quickly turned this practice into a true art of living and hospitality, using beautiful tools to prepare and drink the tea.

Tomorrow, I’m going to change the tea room decor at the Baur Museum, moving into the brazier season, with a smaller kettle and less charcoal, unlike the previous season which used a larger hearth to boil water and heat the room.

The tea ceremony is extraordinarily complex and rich, like a multifaceted diamond, and it takes more than a lifetime to fully understand. It's the activity I’ve devoted the most time to—outside of work. I even bought a farmhouse, which I arranged with two tea rooms, where I’ve practiced for over 30 years.

To learn more, I recommend my two lectures at the Bodmer Library, available as videos titled “Neeser – Tea Ceremony.”

– What would you absolutely want to add about Japan, or what aspect would you like to share with us?
I would say it’s above all the quality of human relationships. A cherished Japanese saying is Ichigo Ichie, meaning “one moment, one encounter.” The Japanese are very aware that these human encounters are not just coincidences, but often true gifts from heaven. One can miss a meeting—or choose to live it fully, seeing it as unique and precious. For me, Ichigo Ichie perfectly sums up my view of Japan.

– What practice or exercise have you learned and still use today?
I wouldn't say any particular physical exercise—although I probably should have practiced Tai Chi Chuan, which would have helped my joints! No, I don't have a specific exercise. What I really learned is how to appreciate the present moment. I remember the past with emotion and gratitude, but the past is behind us. The future—we don’t know it: maybe I won’t be here tomorrow, who knows? I expect nothing, but I fully live in the present moment, happy to be myself. As a child, I often said I was “happy to be in the world and to see clearly”—meaning to try to understand what’s going on around us, not to remain blind. These days, the world isn't always cheerful, but we carry on, and we remain happy to live in the moment.