Hiding
behind a mask in a world that constantly demands us to be seen, judged, and
defined may sound like an act of cowardice. But in reality, many people feel
that this is a way to protect themselves and build the most honest kind of
courage—when they are not fully visible. Anonymous accounts, virtual avatars,
or false identities are not always forms of lies or something
negative—sometimes, they are the only way to breathe.
This
phenomenon is portrayed gently in Belle. Suzu, a girl who nearly loses
her “voice” in the real world, instead shines in the virtual world as Belle.
Her withdrawn real-life self stands in stark contrast to the character she
creates. She becomes confident, brave enough to sing, and able to touch many
people. Ironically, when her body and real name are hidden, her emotional
honesty is what finally comes through.
The
real world is a space full of demands. Our identity does not stand alone; it
carries the past, trauma, family expectations, and social judgment. Every move
feels risky, every voice can be misunderstood. In conditions like this, being
yourself often feels too difficult without facing judgment from others. There
is simply too much to lose.
A
mask—whether in the form of an avatar or a fake account—creates a saving
distance. Distance from direct stares, from instant judgment, from the shame
that clings to the body. With that distance, someone can choose: how much to
open up, when to appear, and to whom they want to be seen. This sense of
control slowly gives birth to safety. And from safety, confidence grows.
It
is important to understand that a mask does not always mean falseness. More
often, a mask works as a filter. It filters fear, not honesty. Behind a virtual
identity, someone may not be creating a new persona, but rather removing the
burden that has been silencing them all along. What remains is a voice that has
long been held back. It is no surprise, then, that we often find harsher
comments on social media coming from anonymous accounts.
In
this context, the virtual world becomes a space of recognition. A place where
someone is allowed to exist without having to explain their wounds. Like Suzu,
many people do not become “someone else” when wearing an avatar—they become the
version of themselves that has never been given space to live.
The
question is no longer why people choose to hide, but why the real world feels
so unfriendly toward honesty. If someone can only be brave when their identity
is concealed, perhaps the problem is not the mask itself, but the system that
makes openness feel dangerous.
In
the end, a mask is not always a sign of escape. Sometimes, it is a pause. A
temporary safe place, before someone is ready to face the world with their own
body and name. And perhaps, instead of tearing off the mask, what matters more
is asking: what made someone need it in the first place?
(Aluna
Uwie)
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