Mari was just two months into her new job when she decided she had had enough. The position at an online bank in Tokyo, found through a staffing agency, had looked like a perfect fit for the 25-year-old, a member of Japan’s legions of temporary workers.
But she quickly became despondent. “On my first day they gave me a thick manual to read, and when I went to my boss with questions he said: ‘What the hell are you asking me that for?’”
Mari, who asked that her real name not be used, was regularly forced to work late, and her boss’s behaviour became more threatening. “He would ask me why I was taking so much time to finish a task and pretended to punch me when he thought I’d made a mistake. And he’d do things like deliberately knock my pencil case on to the floor. It was power harassment, pure and simple.”
Unable to summon the courage to tell her boss that she wanted to quit, she sought help from a company offering proxy resignations, a rapidly growing service for Japanese workers who can’t bring themselves to hand in their notice in person.
The Tokyo-based agency Momuri reports soaring demand since it started offering proxy resignation services two-and-a-half years ago. “We submit resignations on behalf of people who, for whatever reason, can’t do it themselves,” says Shinji Tanimoto, the head of Albatross, the firm that runs Momuri – Japanese for “enough already”.
He adds: “Sometimes it’s just natural reluctance, but some might have experienced harassment or even violence from their employers. They are at their wits’ end when they come to us.”
The firm, one of an estimated 100 companies across Japan offering similar services, has so far received 350,000 online consultations and completed 20,000 resignations.
Experts have attributed the trend to a generational shift in attitudes towards work, accelerated by the disruption to jobs and lifestyles caused by the Covid-19 pandemic, when working from home prompted many people to reconsider their work-life balance.
Japan’s chronic labour shortage – a symptom of its low birthrate – has also made employers more determined to retain staff, even if it means intimidating them into staying. Some force workers to find their own replacements before accepting their resignations or rip up their resignation letters in front of them.
After contacting Momuri through a popular messaging app, clients are asked to complete a questionnaire, sign a contract and pay a fee: ¥22,000 (£110) for full-time workers and ¥12,300 for part-time employees or those on a fixed-term contract.
One of Momuri’s 50 staff then calls the employer on the client’s behalf. The process, from the initial consultation to resignation, can take as little as 20-30 minutes, according to Tanimoto, whose firm retains lawyers to deal with legal disputes.
People in their 20s account for 60% of Momuri users, including a large number of new graduates. According to the labour ministry, more than 30% of recent graduates leave their jobs within three years – a figure that would have been unimaginable during Japan’s postwar economic miracle.
There are myriad reasons for wanting to resign, says Tanimoto, whose firm boasts a 100% success rate: from unpaid overtime, low wages and employer breaches of contract, to verbal abuse, violence and sexual harassment.
“In Japan, companies are traditionally strong – what your employer says goes,” he says. “And Japanese people are generally reluctant to rock the boat. Resigning is seen as escaping and evading your responsibilities. But that is changing.”
The surge in demand for proxy resignations has been attributed to a mismatch between gen Z workers and companies whose corporate culture is rooted in the postwar era, when lifetime employment, promotions and pay rises were expected to be rewarded with absolute loyalty from staff. Many bosses take a resignation request as a personal insult.
Although Momuri’s client base is mainly young, it also receives requests for help from older workers. “We deal with all sorts of companies, from household names to small businesses,” says Tanimoto, whose firm once submitted 45 resignations en masse to the same company.
The reaction from employers varies. A small number show contrition and offer indirect apologies to the employee, and most simply accept the decision and complete the necessary paperwork. “But a small number go mad and threaten to turn up at our office, that sort of thing,” he adds. “If they behave like that it makes you wonder how awful it must have been for the client.”
Proxy resignation firms say consultations spike after long public holidays, weekends and even after a rainy day – times when people tend to be more reflective. One in six workers in Japan used resignation agencies to change their jobs in the 12 months to June this year, according to Mynavi, an employment information provider.
The largest group, 40.7% of respondents, said they had sought help because their employer had prevented them from leaving or was likely to. Almost a third said their working environment made it impossible to communicate their intention to quit, while almost 25% said they feared their firm would react badly.
Toui Iida texted a resignation agency in September, a month after he was hired on a short-term contract by an IT company.
“The job was way more physically demanding than I’d been told, so I decided to quit,” says Iida, who is now in between jobs. “But when I told my manager he pointed out that I’d signed a one-year contract and hadn’t been there long, so he refused to let me go.”
It took just hours for the 25-year-old to cut ties with his employer. “I was so happy that I didn’t have to go to work the next day. It was like being given a second chance.”
Mari, who is back in work, felt a similar wave of relief. “The experience had affected my physical and mental health,” she says.
“In Japan, you’re expected to devote yourself to your company … quitting is out of the question. But people of my generation are different. We’re more calculated about our life choices, and for me that means putting my personal happiness before my job.”
