As a Scot, I found the news that my country had registered, by some distance, the most drug-related deaths in Europe last year profoundly depressing. But my sprits sank even lower when I saw the reaction. Rather than provoking a genuine debate about how to tackle this crisis, the dismal statistics merely set off yet another round of the Holyrood vs Westminster blame game. There were wearily predictable calls for more money, more treatment programmes, more ‘consumption rooms’, more methadone, and even, for those under the illusion that it isn’t virtually the de facto situation anyway, legalisation.
It seems to be accepted as a fact now that a significant number of Scottish people will become dependent on drugs, that drug abusers, like the poor, will always be with us. The only question worth discussing is how to help such people cope with their habit, and hopefully, in time, beat it. The whole idea of preventing drugs taking hold of lives in the first place seem to have been either forgotten, or abandoned as a lost cause. But is it lost?
Japan, where I live, has a totally different attitude to the problem, and it’s working: the country is at the other end of the scale to Scotland in terms of drug deaths. Here, the emphasis is on stopping people from even contemplating drug use in the first place, by deterring them – essentially terrifying them – with harsh, career-destroying penalties and public humiliation. It’s certainly effective.
Few in the west are probably even aware of Japan’s successful drug policies, but even among those who are, too often it is dismissed as only applicable to the Japanese, due to ‘cultural differences’. But I have personal experience that suggests it might work in Scotland too.
Ten years ago, I worked for a British arts organisation in Tokyo, of some international repute. Half the employees were British and we largely worked together forming a microcosm of UK office life in the heart of Tokyo. Among us were a group of young male colleagues in the habit of frequenting the notorious Roppongi nightlife district at weekends. One day, one of them, a confident young man with managerial aspirations, mysteriously disappeared. I recall chatting with him in the morning, but when I came back from lunch he was gone, apparently ‘off sick’.
He remained ‘off sick’ for week after week after week, until the credibility of this official story was straining at the seams. Finally, management called a meeting and admitted it had all been a fiction: our missing colleague was in fact languishing in a Tokyo jail awaiting charges of attempting to purchase illegal drugs. He faced a lengthy prison sentence.
It turns out he had approached an undercover police officer with whom he attempted to negotiate a drug deal. The officer tracked him down, waited a few days until he was at work, (presumably for the purpose of maximum humiliation) and arrested him. Luckily for the company, the office was nearly deserted when the police arrived, so he was escorted from the building unnoticed.
He spent three months in jail awaiting trial, part of it sharing with an alleged murderer, before being brought into court, in chains, for his hearing. Since the company had arranged the best legal defence possible, he got off lightly by Japanese standards: deportation and a lifetime ban from reentering the country. He was, of course, dismissed.
The effect of this incident on our little Britain was transformational. An icy wind seemed to blow through the room. It gave us all pause and made us reassess our behaviour. Everything suddenly felt more serious. The laddish group, in particular, went very quiet.
This is the Japanese way with drugs: strike early and strike hard and make sure everyone knows about it. The focus is always on society as a whole, protecting those as yet undamaged by drugs and imprinting on their minds an unambiguous message: if they get involved there is a high likelihood that they will be caught, and the consequences will be disastrous.
The result? The overwhelming majority heed the warning. Drug-related deaths are so rare that official statistics are hard to find. People live long, and generally productive lives. The streets are safe and free of the haunted drug-addled zombies that loiter in many British town centres. Would this work in Scotland? Well, since the Japanese approach used to be the UK approach, why not?
The ‘cultural differences’ claimants aren’t completely wrong, though. The motivating power of ‘societal disgrace’ is far weaker now in Scotland than Japan. And it could be argued that many of those who fall into drug use in Scotland come from such dismal chaotic backgrounds that even strict application of the law and harsh penalties might make no difference.
But on the other hand, it might. And surely it’s worth a shot? There are plenty of hopeful young people from stable backgrounds and with supportive families, who just make poor choices. Thanks to the police having almost abandoned active enforcement of drugs laws for possession or personal use, they know they are in little danger of being punished. This is hardly a deterrent.
I believe at least some of the 1200, who died of drug-related deaths in Scotland last year could have been reached with the Japanese approach, and potentially saved from becoming one more addition to an awful statistic. And how many more could be saved going forward? It’s clear that Scotland’s approach has failed. It should look elsewhere, to Japan, for answers.
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