In March 2026, the government of Japan formally asked its citizens to stop panic-buying toilet paper. The shelves were emptying because of a war nearly 8,000 kilometers away. Photos circulated of hoarded supplies: cat food, toiletries, garbage sacks, and even one proud tower of Suntory beer. The economy ministry reminded everyone that toilet paper supply was fine, but everyone kept buying it.
Japan had seen this movie, one that had nothing to do with the one lived during the COVID lockdown. In October 1973, days after the Arab oil embargo began, a supermarket in Osaka’s Senri New Town put four-packs on sale and watched 200 housewives strip 1,400 rolls from the shelves before lunch. A reporter framed the bargain rush as oil-shock hoarding: the framing became a rumor, the rumor became a national shortage, and the shortage lasted into spring. The panic even crossed the Pacific. That December, Johnny Carson joked to twenty million viewers about a coming US toilet paper shortage, and by January, the United States had one. He apologized on air, to shelves that stayed empty anyway.
Panic, it turns out, ships faster than pulp.
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