攻殻機動隊 M.M.A. - Messed Mesh Ambitions_

Major’s arms are thin. At the same time, her breasts are so voluptuous that the word almost doesn’t do them justice, and the curve of her ample hips accentuates her slim waist. The “Ghost in the Shell” series, alongside Katsuhiro Otomo’s “AKIRA,” is credited as an integral pioneer in raising the reputation of “Japanimation” internationally. However, there is always conspicuous mention of Major’s stereotypical “nice body” when the series is brought up, despite it being 35 years since its first publication. In this collection, where the central theme is “Outlaws,” there were several commentators who were outspoken about the conservative views on gender exhibited within the “Ghost in the Shell” series.


In the real world, a person’s body shape is defined by their genetics. To write off a work of fiction because the main character has large breasts and therefore must support a derogatory view of women is shortsighted and can undermine the dignity of real-world women with large busts. However, in the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” one’s body, including their physical appearance, is not something determined at birth that cannot be altered as one wishes. In the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” prosthetic technology has developed to the point where it is ubiquitous, and all aspects of a person’s body can now be selected, from its skeletal structure to its flesh and even its gender.


In Major’s case, her entire body has been remade with prosthetics since she was a child, so for her, the body is merely an avatar. That said, there is still a certain common bias that shows in the choices she made, as outlined above. There’s no question that this biased choice was made by Major, inspired by her strong commitment to Section 9 and the demanding nature of her missions. But then, when considering the grueling missions given to her by Section 9, Major’s thin arms are clearly unreasonable. And as we see in the movie “Ghost in the Shell” (herein “G.I.S.”), when Major attempts to force open the hatch on the tank the Puppet Master is inside of, those arms are easily damaged and break apart. And it is not hard to imagine how having prominently large breasts may put her at a disadvantage in physical combat.

So then, why is Major still, to this day, designed to have this body with thin arms? In the story, we get some hints as to why this is through some statements made by Batou, but Major’s true thoughts remain a mystery. In any case, what is certain is that, for some reason, Major is forced to stick with her thin arms (or the stereotypical female body symbolized by thin arms), and her doing so brings about a certain vulnerability, inconvenience, and even incompetence to her character.

Whatever the reasons may be, there is a history there that has given rise to those reasons. And that history has led to certain situations. Many of the barriers and inconveniences we experience in our day-to-day lives are also borne of situations steeped in a similar history. Even in a world such as that found in the story of “Ghost in the Shell,” where your whole body can be replaced with prosthetics, this fact remains the same. No matter how advanced technology becomes, it is still not able to provide an escape from our self-made situations, no more than our online avatars provide an escape from the implied inconveniences of our own making. It’s true that the avatars we choose for ourselves in online spaces can represent the appearance we desire, beyond the physical constraints of the real world. On the one hand, it seems as if a certain freedom has been achieved. But the preferences themselves, which are the basis for the choices we make, are never fully free from the influences of our own real-world situations. To put it another way, our choices are defined by our own preferences and desires and carry the weight of the inconveniences we feel with what we are unable to choose in our real lives. Any and all of our desires are restricted by the “laws” of our situations as defined by our histories. That is precisely what Major’s illogically thin arms seem to imply: that full-body prosthetic technology is not a technology that allows us to step outside of these laws. It instead seems to be a technology that enforces and confirms the extent to which we are enslaved to them.

However, we can’t say for certain if the spread of cyborg technology, such as full-body prosthetics, will ultimately confirm and enforce our current worldviews and desires without adding anything to their transformation. It’s just as Yuu Matsuura’s essay in this collection, “Mock Meat, That Imitates Meat but Is Not Meat,” discusses. We cannot ignore the vast difference between a flesh and bones “natural” woman’s body and a body that can be altered at will and “created” in the image of a woman’s body. Thinking further on that, when every part of the body except for the brain can be exchanged and replaced, what meaning is left in appearance, in genitalia, in chromosomes, or any “natural” gender presentation? Or, under such circumstances, do we see a need to reexamine the meaning of being cisgender from the bottom up? And while we consider this question, we may also be able to rewrite the laws of desire from within and envision, or even realize, the possibilities found in diving into that void. (At the end of Hideaki Tazaki’s essay in this collection, he suggests the possibility of sex that is reduced to neither body (material) nor spirit (form) through the anomalous nature of tachikomas.)

On its surface, however, “Ghost in the Shell” offers no answer to these questions. Major Kusanagi has been written to identify as bisexual, and her gender identity is as a cis woman, and there have been no noticeable changes in this presentation. Major’s femininity is expressed in the emphasis placed on her thin arms, and in the romantic feelings we can see hidden in her relationship with Kuze in “Ghost in the Shell: S.A.C. 2nd GIG,” and it could also be said that these contribute to the impression discussed earlier where “Ghost in the Shell” is seen to have a conservative view of women.

However, this slightly breaks down when you consider the fact that the gender presentation in “Ghost in the Shell” is, at its core, rather straightforward. For example, consider the fact that Major says she’s on her period near the start of “G.I.S.” The fact that this is a joke is clearly apparent from the context and from her tone of voice. It goes without saying that, since her entire body aside from her brain was created with prosthetics, Major does not get her period, nor does she get any of the related symptoms. So she was feigning something she herself has never experienced, purely for humorous effect. So when she responds to someone pointing out her bad mood with an ostentatious joke saying she’s on her period, it’s akin to how some gay men use this joke as a running gag at the bar. Jokes like this and similar “girly” expressions are based on caricatures and exaggerated stereotypical ideas of the female gender, which leads to the excessive fashion and makeup utilized by drag queens. This over exaggeration of female presentation by gay men, however, does not strictly follow a pre-existing system. Rather, it is an expression of disdain, a practice employed by queer people who dare to poison the existing system from within. And with this poisonous, ambivalent stance secured, gay men can maintain their distance from heterosexual people.


In his book “Toward (Invisible) Desire: A Dialogue with Queer Criticism,” Toshikatsu Murayama, a queer critic who died before his time, discusses how gay men are the audience most able to enjoy romantic literature that seems to follow a more traditional gender structure, and that what makes this enjoyment possible is the “distance” they have that allows them to say, “That is not my story.” Murayama posits that it is because they are not heterosexual that they can to indulge in the story without being consumed by it. On the other hand, Murayama also mentions the works of James R. Kincaid and his discussions on the sexualizing of children, describing them as “horrifying.” Kincaid’s work exposes how we must acknowledge and admit how our mainstream media sexualizes minors. That he, an adult male, can discuss these topics objectively is precisely because he exists in a narrow space where he does not have any such desires.

If we consider the “camp” mannerisms employed by drag queens as creating an inner void of sorts, a space outside the law, and the influence of the system (see Kyoko Ozawa’s essay in this collection on the nature of the inner void and spaces outside the law), the stakes are then placed on the distance from what the system defines as “libido,” on the gap formed where the desire of the self and the desire being relayed in a story do not match up. From this standpoint, the very concept of cisgender has ceased to have any meaning for Major, who has a fully prosthetic body. The fact that there is no biological difference in sex means that the subject’s desires do not strictly conform with any gender- or sexuality-based desires that we have discussed. Considering how Major’s situation is inseparable from this fact, we may then recognize that Major, with her oddly body-conscious manner of dress, and her stereotypically feminine body, embodies the same distance that drag queens have between themselves and how they present themselves. Major’s thin arms, which seemed to symbolize an inconvenience for her, now start to take on a different meaning. Or could it be that those thin arms themselves can be read as clues that the superficially conservative “Ghost in the Shell” story can be read again with a queerer, outlaw-like perspective? The rainbow glow of the libertin found in the void is already showing, faintly, as Major’s exaggerated feminine silhouette dives into the dazzling skyscraper-defined nightscape of the electronic city.

However, there is one more thing I must add here. The existence of a distance from desire can never be a universal exemption from it. It’s not always possible to objectively determine whether or not a given subject has sufficient distance from the systemically defined “libido.” Queer scholar Gayle Salamon proposes the concept of a “discrepancy continuum,” a term that expresses the sense of gender discrepancy not as an exception limited to sexual minorities but as something that everyone has to a certain extent, as on a spectrum. If we follow Salamon’s line of thinking, then there is also a spectrum in the distance one feels from the systemic libido.*1 In that case, the question then becomes: how much distance is required to find a place that exists outside the laws of desire? There is still no clear-cut answer to this question. As in Matsuura’s essay on fictosexual theory and how it relates to two-dimensional characters, a prosthetic body is not just a well-made copy but a simulacrum with its own materials, so there is a certain danger in the viewpoint that Major, who was born female, went on to choose a stereotypical “nice body” for herself. Especially when it comes to those who feel desire directed towards minors, no matter how much material or ontological difference there may be, it is impossible to dispel the “horror” that Murayama perceived in James R. Kincaid’s work.


Whenever desire is expressed, there is always an object for that desire. It’s not possible to apply a theoretical standard for determining the point where the expression of desire becomes unjustifiably aggressive; it can only be determined by the laws of attraction unique to the situation. By making crude arguments like, “If we allow this, then we must also allow that,” we ignore the existence of these laws of attraction, which ultimately leads to the condemnation of all desires. Are those merely a void opened deep within the recesses of the law, or are they a trap that entangles the legs of those trying to escape it? It’s necessary that we are able to consider this carefully.


I’d like to approach the idea of full-body prosthetics from a different angle.

One of the key words that defines the “S.A.C.” series directed by Kenji Kamiyama, without question, is “stand alone.” However, for Major and Batou, with their bodies that are completely prosthetic aside from their brains, when you think of them through the lens of today’s bacterial research, it places them in a stand-alone state in the literal sense of the words.

It’s common knowledge that our bodies are home to a myriad of bacteria. Or rather, if we consider the scientific findings of recent years, it’s not so much that I am home to a multitude of organisms as I am a symbiote comprised of several organisms, including bacteria—a kind of vague idea of a “familia,” you could say. (For a further discussion on family, please see the Madoka / Shitone essay in this collection.) According to science writer Alanna Collen, there are over 100 trillion microorganisms living in the human intestines, and they form an ecosystem not unlike coral reefs found in the ocean. The intestinal bacteria are also able to communicate with the brain via the vagus nerve (the brain-gut interaction) and can have a significant impact on the host’s temperament, personality, and thought processes. *2 However, in a body comprised entirely of prosthetics, there are no bacteria, and therefore the “familia” that makes up our bodies does not exist. This is unprecedented in all the history of multicellular organisms. A body that is less than a conventional individual has lost its symbiotic family, or rather, has been replaced with man-made parts. That body, from an ontological and biological standpoint, can now be considered a “stand-alone” system, perhaps. (However, when viewed through the lens of life and death in relation to brain death and cardiac arrest as the death of the individual, humans may have always been alone in that regard.)


The fact that everyone in Section 9, except for Togusa and Chief Aramaki, who notably do not have any prosthetic parts, are also “alone” in the sense that they are unmarried, is not unrelated. *3 Because what makes the formation of communal groups such as families possible is not competence, but incompetence. (A further discussion of incompetence in relation to the community can be found in another essay in this collection, “A Collective of the Inept” by Hideaki Tazaki.) Basically, having a community is very important for us, but it can also be quite troublesome. Not to mention how, even in an insular society such as Japan, most of the problems people face are caused by troubles in the community, including family relationships, friendships, and work relationships. Naturally, even though interpersonal relationships can be troublesome, living entirely on one’s own is also difficult. As we are all inept, we are unable to carry on our day-to-day lives entirely on our own, no more than we are able to stave off loneliness and boredom on our own. It is for this reason that we form communities (both of our own species and interspecies). Conversely, if we were more competent, we wouldn’t feel the need to form communities.

When it comes to our relationship with intestinal bacteria, it still holds true. Bacteria are there to assist us in digesting the food we consume, but at times they also cause our bodies to break down, or in the worst-case scenarios, may even lead to our death. If we were more competent at digesting food on our own, without the help of bacteria, there’s no doubt we would begin planning for our separation from it, even if that existence was an irreplaceable member of the “familia” that had made up ourselves up until that point.

This “incompetence” may be the reason why Togusa has maintained his flesh and blood body, despite how it affects his ability to carry out his duties. In the story, Togusa never gives a defined reason for why he has not acquired any prosthetics. You could almost say that Togusa has more or less avoided replacing any part of his body with prosthetics and seems to be content with his “natural” incompetence. It could also be said that he “more or less” has no defined reason for it. The work Section 9 is involved in makes the use of prosthetics a logical necessity. To accomplish their missions and to increase their chances of survival, it clearly makes more sense to have a capable prosthetic body than to remain in an incompetent body made of flesh and blood. That choice would serve not only Togusa and Section 9 but would also serve the family he cares about (in that it would improve his chances of living on as the father figure). And yet, Togusa does not make this choice. Just like how he keeps his old-fashioned pistol for no other reason than the fact he “just likes it,” Togusa “just” keeps his natural, flesh-and-blood body although all his colleagues have turned to prosthetics. Togusa must intuitively sense that the incompetence he would lose in exchange for the competence that prosthetic body parts would grant him is the foundation for the family light that he holds dearly.

Yet, on the other hand, individuals who have acquired prosthetics also have their own incompetence that they have carried with them to remain competent. In the story, Major still requires regular maintenance from the government despite having the highest quality of prosthetics. She’s free from the hassle of requiring a home and daily food, reliance on intestinal bacteria, and the incompetence of a vulnerable, natural body. But this is obtained through a trade-off with another incompetence: a total dependence on the state and capital for their advanced technology. In a way, we could also see the lives of people who live in today’s cities reflected in the lives of these full-body prosthetic individuals. In the highly competent urban systems of today, with 24-hour convenience stores, public transportation that runs on a tight schedule, and strict security with cameras on every corner, people are free from cumbersome interpersonal networks and are given the illusion that they can live safely and securely even as a “stand-alone” individual. But what may seem to be freedom on its surface is actually more akin to a colony of ants trapped in an inescapable mutualistic relationship. By treating several individuals and separate dependencies as one system, the individuals will share the same fate as the system. Naturally, at that point, the individual is left with no recourse but to maintain their life as part of that system. And as long as I myself am also in that situation to a certain extent, no matter how I try to repress it, my own incompetence will always return in some form or another. Or, if we go by what Tasaki discussed elsewhere in this collection, is the perception of “I” merely a representation of my lagging behind (diachrony) the temporality (synchrony) of all-powerful angels? In which case, the only way that “I” can live in my situation is through my own incompetence compared to the all-powerful. Incompetence is not only the condition that makes possible a community that must flock together because of that very incompetence, but also the condition that makes possible a situation in which my “self” lags behind.

No matter how I strive for competency, so long as I am my “self,” I will never be exempt from my own incompetence. However, the incompetence I carry in this case is different from the incompetence that comes with my original, simplistic incompetence. The relationships built by incompetent individuals are caring and loving relationships based on their incompetence, whereas the relationships built by those who bear their incompetence in exchange for competence must be a utilitarian and meritocratic relationships based on that competence. With its high rate of members who have prosthetics, Section 9 is highly competent, and given the makeup of its staff, it has a male-centric environment. It demands that its members be strong, smart, and capable, and the advanced prosthetic and cybernetic technologies that support this competence are also deeply connected to paternalistic principles such as capitalist and nationalist strategies that aim for unlimited expansion. Naturally, this criticism may give you a sense of deja vu. It’s a classic criticism of any new technologies; anything new that’s proclaimed to make people’s lives more convenient and comfortable and to empower individuals is in fact being used by the government and the capitalist society to make people dependent on it and turn them into easy-to-manipulate puppets. Or, alternatively, such discourse has been cheapened by an abundance of conspiracy theories. Even if we must distance ourselves from such crude conspiracy theories, we also cannot deny that the technology for full-body prosthetics created in pursuit of competence, and the systemic desire within that pursuit contain aspects that are inherently anti-community, anti-care, and anti-affectionate.

It is difficult to resist one’s situation, wherein people are commanded to be competent with only simple incompetence. In the end, we can only reject the idea of the “artificial” and exalt the idea of incompetence in the name of being “natural.” But this would only enslave us to another kind of law under mediocre essentialism. How, then, can we create a space for us to be “outlaws” where the laws demand us to be competent? Perhaps the answer lies in Major’s “thin arms.” In other words, it comes from competent individuals daring to invite even the slightest incompetence. That “slight” incompetence creates a distance—a gap, if you will—a delay that separates the self from completely becoming a part of the systemic desire.

In “Innocence,” it’s for this reason that Batou can be seen living with his dog, Gabriel, despite the fact that it could interfere with his duties. Even within Section 9, Major and Batou have the most prosthetic parts, and the irrational choices made by these two extremely “stand-alone” individuals may resonate with Togusa, who relies on Mateba and his all-natural body. Or, we could also suppose that Major’s choice to bring Togusa into Section 9 was intended to invite incompetence into a competent organization. *4 As stated by Hisashi Murakami in this collection, the timelines for constituent members are disparate from the system’s perspective, and this heterogeneity is implied to be a positive thing. In his essay, Murakami presents the results of multiple experiments, and argues that the fluctuations that accompany such disconnects (asynchronism) allow for a certain flexibility and robustness in the group that is different from rigid stability. *5 On the other hand, the “all-powerful” angels who live in total synchrony have no need to operate as a group; they are, in fact, unable to. For individuals to form a group, the circumstances must be that I am not you, and you are not me, and we each have our own disparate sense of time, our own unique slowness, and our own distinct incompetence.

It is a flexible, robust, and aggressive organization that has been made extremely capable through state-of-the-art prosthetics and cybernetics (while feeding into and relying deeply on the system), while at the same time daring to be asynchronous by inviting in that slight incompetence (with a disconnect that chooses not to align itself with the systemic desires). The fact that utilitarian, meritocratic law that commands people to “be competent” and essentialist, nostalgic law that holds people back in simple incompetence are, in fact, two sides of the same coin, and is also evident even in today’s political climate. If there were to be a group of people who did not identify with either of these laws and found a place in the voids within them to lead a group of “outlaws” to form resistance from within, what better organization could there be? *6

Tasaki’s essay in this collection also references the works of the philosopher Bernard Stiegler’s works on primordial narcissism thusly:

“Stiegler considered video and audio recordings to be textbook temporal objects and held that they were automated replays of someone else’s memories and thus their past, not our own. This eliminates the need to live that past as our ‘own’ present. Is this my memory or someone else’s? Omitting the time that separates ‘someone’ from the self causes the two to be superimposed on each other. This is the danger of the primordial narcissism that Stiegler references.”

The “crisis of primordial narcissism” phenomenon described here also refers to the fear of losing the “I am not you and you are not me” circumstances that allow us to group together, the asynchronous disconnect between the two due to becoming more competent, and the homogenization that accompanies it. In this way, we can see that the conditions required for forming groups are not for indulging in this primordial narcissism but for enriching it. Major’s thin arms, Batou’s beloved dog, Gabriel—perhaps they are like Ariadne’s thread leading them out of the labyrinth of primordial narcissism. But apparently, it still does not provide them with a tightrope across the abyss. It is not enough. Something is still missing.

In the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” where prosthetics and cybernetics have become more and more prevalent and the incompetence of each individual is fading away, everyone, though not as extreme as Major and Batou, is on the verge of this “crisis of primordial narcissism,” in some way, of losing the “I am not you, you are not me” circumstances that allow us to group together. And to try and make up for these crises, or to confirm the fading away of the lines that define the “self,” in that world certain words that are exchanged begin to take on a sense of magic to them.

“Just a whisper. I hear it in my ghost.”

To conclude this afterword, which has already gone on a bit too long, I will also try to listen to my own little whispers.

Even in Section 9, it’s Major and Batou who show the most interest in the concept of “ghosts,” despite their advanced prosthetics. Throughout the “Ghost in the Shell” series, they can be counted on to mention the whispers of their ghosts. So then, what exactly is this “ghost”? In the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” ghosts are thought of as something like a “life force” residing in the brain. By this logic, ghosts should not exist within robots or androids. However, objectively speaking, in everyday situations, the existence of ghosts cannot actually be determined.

In “S.A.C. 2nd GIG,” when the public security office’s coroner bleeds “white blood” from his eye socket following an electrical short, Batou asks him in surprise, “You’re an android?” There’s also Purin, who appears as a new member of Section 9 in “Ghost in the Shell: SAC_2045,” and dies as a flesh-and-blood person only to have her electrical data revived in the form of an android. Her story plays out in such a way that, even after coming back as an android, she continues to exist in the story in a way that feels unchanged to the audience. Thus, the overall impression of a subject “having or not having a ghost” does not depend on the behavior of that subject. The existence of ghosts in the world of “Ghost in the Shell” is not something that can be objectively confirmed without opening the skull to observe the electronic state of the brain or by some other irregular exposure. The body, wherein the brain is “buried” within the cranium and never visible in our day-to-day lives, divides existence into those with ghosts and those without. This is akin to a major point of contention in the (pseudo) controversy regarding the use of women-only spaces by transgender women, where we are not privy to what’s inside another person’s underwear in our day-to-day lives, whether there is a buried “thorn” *7 there or not.

In “S.A.C. 2nd GIG,” there are several scenes featuring discussions of the ghosts of tachikomas, who have no “buried brain.” The tachikomas voluntarily decided to send the satellite with their mother data on board to intercept a launched nuclear missile. In response to this, the android coroner made the following statement:

“I’d bet anything that all of you have ghosts.”

Why is the self-sacrifice of the tachikomas linked here to the concept of ghosts? If what they call “ghosts” is something connected to the brain of a living organism, then it should be clearly impossible for robots like the tachikomas to have one. Or perhaps we should pay closer attention to the concept of “having” a ghost in this instance. Normally, tachikomas should not have ghosts, but when they make the autonomous decision to sacrifice themselves, something one would only expect of someone with a “ghost,” this was merely the wording the android coroner used to express his surprise.

However, one could also argue that this self-sacrifice was merely the robots following their protocols as servants to humans. If the action is objectively rational, carrying out a self-destructive mission, we certainly can’t call that “un-robotic” behavior. It may be possible that the coroner said that due to the fact that the tachikomas acted on their own, against Major’s orders. But even in that case, the tachikomas’ choice to take the action that keeps human casualties at a minimum does not go against the protocols of the public security organization as a whole (which would supersede Major’s orders), allowing them to make the choice that would best accomplish their mission. Therefore, we still are not provided with enough proof that this action was “unrobotic” of them. *8

So then, why did the word “ghost” come to mind at that moment? People who have watched the “S.A.C.” series consider the tachikomas’ “special attack” scene to be one of the series most emotional. The clip has been uploaded to YouTube, where it has been viewed many times. From this, we can see that for viewers, there’s something special about that scene, something that evokes an emotional response to the tachikomas. So, we might also consider that the coroner was merely expressing his emotional response to the tachikomas’ actions.

As discussed, there are not enough elements in this scene to prove that the tachikomas “have ghosts.” Rather, if the tachikomas had gone against their protocols, sending them on a “suicide mission” and making an attempt to save themselves instead, that would have shown much more “humanity” and would therefore have hinted at the existence of ghosts within them. So, if there is an objective criterion for determining the existence of ghosts, it would have to be the illogical emotions perceived by the surrounding people from the subject’s actions and behavior. Or is the term “emotional response” not the right fit here? Should it be switched out for more vague terms using “-ish” or “-like”?


But even if something evokes an “emotional response” or is “something-ish” or “something-like,” it still does not meet the same level as hard facts and truths. It’s much more subjective and based on vague judgments than meeting any level of credibility, which means that whether a subject has a ghost or not depends on how much one believes that they do. In fact, it’s not so unusual for us, in our day-to-day lives, to treat objects that do not possess a brain as if they were alive. From a young age, we treat stuffed toys and dolls as though they were alive and create strong emotional attachments to our vehicles and electronic devices. We might also consider Matsuura’s discussion in this collection about the existence of those with fictosexual desires and how we anthropomorphize inanimate objects and seek life within them.

That’s not to say that stuffed toys, cars, and 2D characters exist on the same footing as high-performance robots, of course. In the former case, the issue is mainly about the relationship with the owner. For robots, which have been widely integrated into societal relationships, the existence of their intentions and their free will become the issue. Which brings us back to the buried thorn, which may provide us with a better analogy. In fact, this doesn’t just relate to what I’ve just written, and not just how we think about transgender and nonbinary people, but how we think about anyone. When we meet other people, we are often aware (be it consciously or unconsciously) of that person’s sex or gender, regardless of their chromosomes or genitalia—the unseen, so-called biological criteria for sex assignment. This then influences the choices we make in how we communicate with that person. In making these choices, we are not relying on buried and unseen facts or truths, but on the credibility of our actual lived experiences.

So now what we must consider is whether there is any meaning in asking if the tachikomas or Purin following her becoming an android have ghosts. Even if we treat the existence of ghosts based on the originality of the brain as a fact, people do not always disclose the existence of their brains in their day-to-day lives. (There is also a precedent in the “Ghost in the Shell” universe for non-humanoid bodies such as the tachikomas to possess a brain of biological origin.) Also, as seen above, in the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” where it can be difficult to determine if even your colleagues are cyborgs or androids, it’s clearly seen that determining so depends on vague criteria like how “-ish” or “-like” they are. Sure, there are instances such as cybernetic maintenance that may allow for a clearer distinction, but those circumstances are limited. Therefore, there is no rational reason to question the existence of ghosts in each interaction one has in the world of “Ghost in the Shell.”

Furthermore, in that world, there is also what is called “ghost dubbing” (basically just programming the brain), a technology for duplicating ghosts, making the existence of duplicate ghosts no different from normal AI data. This goes against the idea that ghosts are representative of the illusion that each individual is unique. So, why then do the people in the “Ghost in the Shell” world, like Major and Batou, still come back to discussing ghosts? Or, what is the remaining significance of the concept of ghosts under these circumstances?

Put simply, the significance only comes from distinguishing cyborgs, who were originally humans from androids and robots, who were not. We have already seen that using the existence of a living brain as a criterion for the existence of ghosts is not based on reality. It is instead used to distinguish the indistinguishable, a distinction created out of a need for distinction; in other words, it’s nothing more than a self-serving tool for setting oneself apart.

In practice, ghosts are used as a form of discrimination. In the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” robots and androids, who do not have ghosts, are seen as objects to be used. Their “lives” are controlled, monitored, and used by cyborgs. Just as the decision to send the tachikomas back to the lab was made entirely at Major’s discretion, robots and androids are fundamentally stripped of the right to make decisions about their own lives. And while it is true that there are friendly relations between cyborgs and robots/androids in the world of “Ghost in the Shell,” we can assume they have some amount of autonomous discretion in the scope of their actions. However, the fact remains that they are still essentially “slaves,” or, to put it quite mildly, there are still very clear class differences at play that enable this exploitation.

In which case, the preoccupation with ghosts is related to maintaining this discriminatory structure. At the very least, it’s not hard to imagine that the question of whether Major and Batou have ghosts, when their bodies possess so many prosthetic elements as to make them nearly indistinguishable from robots or androids, becomes a pressing ontological concern in relation to their own social positions. It could be said that the meaning behind Major often referencing the whispers of her ghost is merely performative. No one knows better than Major herself that there’s no clear difference. Which is exactly why Major repeatedly attempts to distance herself through this performative phrasing, “invoking” her ghost in a sense. Or, we could also reexamine her “thin arms” from this perspective as well. Her daring to choose to have thin arms could be proof of her ontological resistance, a self-imposed incompetence that acts against the reduction of her “self” to a mere tool like the robots and androids who are treated like slaves.


For Major, whose entire body has been remade with prosthetics since childhood (it’s established in the story that she was the first child in the world to have full-body prosthetics) and who has walked alone amidst the crisis of primordial narcissism, her strong preoccupation with ghosts must have been essential to her survival in this world. Therefore, it would be unethical of us to criticize Major for speaking of how her ghost whispers to her and identifying as someone who has a ghost. It could also be said, as mentioned at the end of the previous section, that everyone living in the world of “Ghost in the Shell” belongs to the same group, to varying degrees. How can we blame them for clinging to the concept of ghosts if it allows them to distance themselves from a world that demands they be competent, to live as their own “self” that cannot be exchanged for anything nor reduced to anything less? But on the other hand, when directed at others, or rather, when taking it upon oneself to determine whether others have or do not have ghosts, then it begins to feel, not unlike the hate speech of today’s society. It is not up to us to make any comments on the ghosts of others. I am the only one able to sense the presence of my own ghost, and that’s how it should be.

That being said, if a ghost is only something felt by “me,” something only “I” can sense, then that is also very isolating. We have lost sight of the reality that we live as a group. Or, as we are all interconnected with each other, someone will always rely on us or call on us. And as we perceive each other, it’s a certainty that we will not be able to put ourselves first. Just like the problem of the chicken and the egg, there’s no way to say for sure which comes first in the relationship.*9

We can see this in the unique buddy-like relationship between Major and Batou, who both stand on the verge of a crisis of primordial narcissism due to their extreme prosthetics. For example, when Major vanishes into the depths of the Net after encountering the Puppet Master in “G.I.S.” and after that, in “Innocence,” Batou relies on his eyes to confirm whether he is, in fact, himself. For Major, who lost her unique prosthetic form in “Innocence,” it can’t even be confirmed if she has a brain at all. (Or, if it had been preserved, would there have been any meaning in that?) By this point in the story, Major had already been copied an infinite number of times, becoming an omnipresent echo of her former consciousness. If we accept this as being the case, I can’t see any reason why that rippling echo across the depths of the Net should be called “Major” or if it should be recognized as her at all. However, if the echoes still barely retain some form of Major, it could be due to Batou’s strong desire to see Major’s existence in that ghost. It’s precisely for this reason that Major only appears in the form of Major before Batou in “Innocence.” It’s the only way she can appear before him.


Earlier, I wrote about how the concept of ghosts can be used as a form of discrimination. I also wrote about how that plays into the incompetence that’s required to live in this world. But that said, when the word is used by Major and Batou, two people facing the same crisis, it starts to take on a different nuance. To me, it becomes a word of support exchanged by refugees who have lost their bodies to full-body prosthetics, a language of love between incompetent individuals who have been made competent to illuminate each other in their similar situations.


In this collection, Asahi Konuta writes the following:

“If so, then this intimacy (essentially, Batou’s love for Major) must be taken not as male desire for a woman rooted in sexual differences but as a desire arising from the similarities between full-body cyborgs. This line of thinking begins to reveal Major and Batou not as simply work buddies but as buddies independent of Section 9 and its closed (cis-hetero) masculinity. In other words, their intimacy begins to take on the appearance of queer buddies, rooted in the sameness of their body types rather than in sexual physical differences.

“Perhaps Major and Batou never buddy up with Togusa, the non-cyborg, or fail to mesh when they try, because the isolation of a full cyborg is all the more visible in front of a non-cyborg? As a result, the “bond between cyborgs” that connects them may be built on emotions not readily understandable to just anyone. Accordingly, the pair’s relationship is a sort of paradoxical intimacy that connects them while leaving them separate. (This in turn could be argued as the reason that Major and Batou never end up together in the ‘Ghost in the Shell’ series.”

If, as Konuta writes, Major and Batou are bound together by an intimacy born of “sameness,” it may seem somewhat inappropriate for them to so often bring up something like “ghosts,” which is a term that is inherently used to emphasize differences between individuals. But then, as discussed in Matsuura’s essay drawing on the writings of Rane Willerslev, “Empathy, which is not complete identification, requires the difference between oneself and the other person.” To distinguish the indistinguishable, a distinction was created out of a need for distinction. That distinction can only be defined by using the word “ghost,” but when it’s used with an eye on the sameness beyond those differences, it begins to echo feelings of affection rather than of hatred.

As stated in the essay “Sociability and Cruising” by theorist Leo Bersani, as referenced in Konuta’s writings:

“Differences are not something to be feared. They are to be loved just the same as our similarities.” *10

That’s right, they are certainly not a side point to be feared.

Looking back on it now, as we consider the concept of ghosts, we also begin to see it as a consideration of “necessities.” For those of us who are incapable of living entirely on our own, existing in a lively group is a necessity. For us to exist in a lively group, you not being me and me not being you is a necessity. For you to not be me and for me to not be you, distance, gaps, delays, incompetence, and the differences created by those elements are a necessity. This is why the “whispers of ghosts” always come with the cold, possessive “my” to isolate “me” from “you.” To stand alone as competent yet incompetent individuals.

On the other hand, we can share what makes us “necessary” in situations that make our very differences so. We can feel our “sameness” in circumstances that are made inescapable by our incompetence. Based on this “sameness,” we are tied together by a differently shaped intimacy while still maintaining our ability to stand alone. At times like this, the “ghost” that coldly separates “you” from “me” is no longer something to be feared. It’s something to be loved, just the same as our similarities that make it possible for “me” to whisper gently to “you,” the “self” that I feel intimacy with.

Perhaps the problems we face today with the concepts of sex and gender are the same as the concept of ghosts in the world of “Ghost in the Shell.” They are concepts that at times create discriminatory structures that divide us and, at other times, can become a talisman that allows us to survive in this world together. The whispers of ghosts that toy with us on the boundaries between hate and care. But the guide to overcoming this ghost trouble is not found within “Ghost in the Shell.” Instead, what we find is a record of never-ending escape in the lives of competent-yet-incompetent cyborgs that are neither right nor wrong in attempting to live as outlaws as defined by those thin arms we can’t ignore, caught up in the ghost trouble that has always been there.

[Notes]
*1
Salamon’s concept of the “discrepancy continuum” is proposed in her critique of the history in which the transgender and transsexual experience has always been reduced to a “problem within the mind” and thus pathologized. In this regard, excerpts from Salamon’s book here or Kazuki Fujitaka’s article “The Felt Body: Transgenderism and the Phenomenology of Perception,” available online, can be used as references.
*2
For example, Colin references an experiment conducted by a research team at McMaster University in Ontario, Canada. The subjects of the experiment were two mice with opposing temperaments, one brave and one timid. The team replaced the intestinal microbes in those two mice. As a result, the temperaments of both mice were reversed.
*3
Aramaki is already divorced at the beginning of the series, and Togusa has also divorced as of the beginning of the most recent series, “SAC_2045.” The question of why Togusa divorces at this point in time is intriguing, but a discussion of it is beyond the scope of what’s written about here and therefore omitted.
*4
This story revolving around the slight incompetence of the competent ones that allows them to operate outside of the law may also relate back to Kyoko Ozawa’s writing in this collection. According to Ozawa’s essay, “Rather than being firmly autonomous and completely outside the law, this is often located on the border of the law, and outlaws often conflict with it, slip past it, or coexist (or even become parasitic) in the form of accomplices or ‘overlooks.’ At any rate, outlaws cannot exist in a completely anarchical place where there is no law.” This is in line with her point, which is that resisting a law that commands one to “be competent” with simple incompetence is no way to resist in the first place. Ozawa also says in a separate place, “This libertin and extralegal radical freedom is expressed by the members of Public Security Section 9, who are basically ‘law enforcers’ even though they are outlaws. Especially with Major, it comes in the process of ‘law enforcement.'” This suggests that Major, who has lived (or had to live) faithfully to Section 9’s law of “being competent,” deliberately chose her “thin-armed” female body as an expression of being outside the law.
*5
All the studies Murakami presented in this discussion were conducted on groups of single species. However, groups are not always strictly confined to a single species (depending on your definition), but sometimes (or always, again, depending on how you define things) by multiple species. As an example, we can consider the reports by primate sociologist Kaoru Adachi on the “mixed groups” that Diana monkeys form in the tropical rainforests of West Africa with other species (red colobuses, olive colobuses, duikers, turacos, etc.). There is also the “holobiont” theory proposed by evolutionary theorist Lynn Margulis, wherein multiple different species have a symbiotic relationship, are indivisible, and constitute a single whole, such as coral reefs created by the symbiotic relationship between coral and zooxanthellae. (For more on mixed groups and holobionts, please refer to the interview with Kaoru Adachi and Shitone Sakamaki titled “Everything Becomes Monkey: When Species Social Theory Meets Donna Haraway,” in the magazine “Tagui,” vol. 3.) The author was unable to determine whether Murakami’s research was applicable to the analysis of interspecies relationships. However, to me, it seems as if the model for forming groups based on asynchrony and mutual anticipation presented by Murakami could provide an effective insight into the dynamics of the world itself.
*6
According to Ozawa’s writing, the members of Section 9 “belong to the system of state power as enforcers of the law. However, they meet with the boundaries of that system and end up extending beyond it, becoming entities that lurk in the gaps.” But on the other hand, in our own world, Major Kusanagi’s portrait has been used on posters promoting the prevention of cybercrimes by the police, which is quite ironic. Keeping the liminal group that makes up Section 9 in mind and ignoring that fact to exalt them is a dangerous path to go down. That “liminal” aspect is representative of their unstable position, where they walk a thin line and could fall on either side of it at any time. Personally, I think we should take care not to forget that fact.
*7
See Akiko Shimizu’s essay, “The Buried Thorn: In Defense of Queer Politics that May Never Appear” (published in the March 2020 edition of “Shisou” (Iwanami Shoten).
*8
Or, it could be said that, as the tachikomas’ “special attack” goes against the first law of robotics, “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm,” the only possible explanation is that they “have ghosts.” I don’t mean to take away from that straightforward interpretation, but in my aim to read the “Ghost in the Shell” series from a new angle in Outlaw, I purposely didn’t take that standpoint. I believe there is another way we can interpret whether the special attack here violated the three laws of robotics. For example, if a child is about to be hit by a car and a robot elects to save them at the risk of destroying itself, if it does indeed destroy itself as a result, that does not strictly go against the laws of robotics. The aim of the special attack scene is simply to stop the missile, therefore saving people’s lives. After considering all options, they came to the decision to operate the satellite and use it to strike down the missile. In this case, the tachikomas’ “destruction” of their “selves” is nothing more than an expected outcome of following through on their mission. This is, indeed, “self-destruction.” However, there is a difference between “self-damage = death” self-sacrifice based on a certain rationality of purpose and the idea that “self-destruction = suicide” by spontaneous action (as with, in another example, the sexaroids taking self-destructive actions in “Innocence”). Combat robots, though, are always at risk of self-destruction when they undertake their missions (striking another does damage to one’s own fist). On the battlefield, the line between whether an action becomes a “shield” or a “sword” can become very blurred. With this in mind, the tachikomas’ “special attack” (or, perhaps, their “special defense”) could also be seen as being well within the scope of their normal protocols. I will add, however, that I do not mean this to deny the possibility that the tachikomas could have ghosts. In fact, I myself was moved to tears when I watched the scene in question and felt that tachikomas did indeed have ghosts (which, by the way, means I had a more “emotional” response unbefitting of AI than the android coroner who referred to “ghosts” without being questioned in that scene). What I wanted to emphasize in this section is that the feeling that the tachikomas may have ghosts, which I also share, is not necessarily something that can be logically supported, but nevertheless, the situation still calls for us to perceive them that way. And one more thing, a running theme in “Innocence” is the question of whether there is no significant difference between the “emotional” response we have towards human actions, the “ghosts” we feel the presence of, and the internal feelings driving those actions.
*9
The “someone” referenced here does not strictly need to be a different person. What’s important here is that the subject realizes they are being looked to and called upon (or, as one might say, “whispered to” by their ghost). What I believe the act of naming this entails is either happening concurrently or as a delayed reaction to this “calling.” And so this name itself invokes another “calling.” For a deeper look into how I consider the concept of “self-identification” should not be reduced to an egoistic tautology but should instead be considered in terms of “mutuality,” which I believe is contained therein, see Katherine Jenkins essay “Toward an Account of Gender Identity” (2018) on relating to “norm-relevancy” below.
*10
The original text read, “Difference can be loved as the non-threatening supplement of sameness.” The original Japanese text utilized a translation by Toshikatsu Murayama.

[References]
● Tazaki, Hideaki. (2007) A Collective of the Inept. Miraisha.
● Murayama, Toshikatsu. (2005) Toward (Invisible) Desire: A Dialogue with Queer Criticism. Jimbun Shoin.
● Bersani, Leo and Phillips, Adam. (2012) Sameness. (Japanese translation: Higaki, Tatsuya and Miyazawa, Yuka). Rakuhoku-Publications.
● Collen, Alanna. (2020) 10% Human: How Your Body’s Microbes Hold the Key to Health and Happiness. (Japanese translation: Yano, Machiko). Kawade Shobo.
● Salamon, Gayle. (2019) Assuming a Body: Transgender and Rhetorics of Materiality. (Japanese translation: Fujitaka, Kazuki). Ibunsha.

Finally, there is one last thing I would like to write here. Just as I was completing work editing this collection, on December 16, 2023, a friend of mine passed away. She was only 36, an editor just like me. Around a month before her passing, she wrote to me from the hospital in response to a video I had worked on with the artist Maki Ohkojima. She wrote an honest and open message to me about how she, as a person living out a cyborg-like existence with her life extended through being connected to artificial tubes in a big city hospital, still yearned for a “natural” life and questioned the meaning of that. As I worked on this afterword, that question she left me with continued to echo in the recesses of my mind. Arina Tsukada, with this humble essay, I hope to give you my answer to that final question you posed. Even though I can’t say whether I have answered it all that well.