The Dark Side of Japanese School Sports

 A prestigious high school baseball team recently withdrew from Japan’s national tournament after a violence scandal, a story that has dominated the news. Japanese school sports are often celebrated as symbols of discipline, perseverance, and virtue. Yet behind this noble image lies a darker reality. According to multiple media reports, the violence was far more brutal than what has been officially acknowledged, suggesting that such incidents may have been systemic rather than isolated. This episode has become emblematic of the disturbing sports culture deeply rooted in Japanese society—what is commonly known as 体育会系(taiiku-kai-kei).

Of course, toxic masculinity exists in Western societies as well. Men may be mocked for carrying umbrellas in the rain, or ridiculed with slurs, like “p-word” if they show weakness. But Japan’s sports culture carries a different kind of pathology. Here, even a one- or two-year age difference creates an absolute hierarchy: seniors command, juniors obey, and disobedience is punished with violence or humiliation. This is not simply peer-to-peer macho posturing—it is a system of master and subordinate, closer to military discipline than to athletics.

I was never part of a sports club myself—I preferred to go straight home after class—but as a student I witnessed many disturbing scenes. One day, a group of baseball players appeared at school with freshly shaved heads. Curious, I asked one of them what had happened. His answer: “Reflection.” They had been punished for not shouting loudly enough during practice, supposedly showing a lack of spirit. In other words, their hair had been sacrificed to prove loyalty. To me, it felt bizarre, almost religious—a ritual humiliation disguised as discipline. Performance in sports should be measured by skill, not by the volume of one’s voice or the length of one’s hair.

I also saw seniors lining up juniors on the floor, forcing them to kneel while screaming insults at them. Freshmen were made to run endless errands unrelated to practice, serving the seniors like servants rather than teammates. Seniors spoke slowly and casually, while juniors—denied any real right to speak—were expected to bark rapid replies in loud voices, as if speed and volume alone could prove their obedience. Watching this, I often wondered: how could a difference of just one or two years justify such rigid hierarchy?

Sports are supposed to nurture people, bring teammates together, and create the joy of effort. Yet in Japan, fear and humiliation have often been repackaged as “discipline” and defended as “tradition.” From an outsider’s perspective, this does not look like baseball or soccer practice at all—it looks like a military cosplay. I feel the same way myself. And I believe these harmful traditions must change. The fact that such scandals are now making national headlines may, at last, be a glimmer of hope.

It is worth remembering that until the 1990s, even corporal punishment by teachers was tolerated in Japan. A student who forgot homework could be slapped hard enough to leave ringing in the ears, and such violence was praised as “tough love.” But as public opinion shifted and newspapers and television exposed these practices, they gradually declined. By the 2000s, teacher-on-student violence had almost disappeared from daily life. Perhaps the same fate awaits the abusive senior–junior hierarchies of taiiku-kai-kei.

I only wish that change had come earlier—back when I was a student myself. If it had, I might have grown to love sports.

Order can be dazzling. Still, I’d rather admire it from afar than lose myself in its uniform rows.

A Torii, a Treaty

 A politician who claimed that “nuclear weapons are the cheapest way to ensure national security” has just been elected. In fact, there’s a surprisingly large number of people in Japan who believe we should either arm ourselves with nuclear weapons or at least start debating the possibility. Frankly, I find this deeply troubling. Of course, it’s only natural to worry about national security as international tensions rise, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with holding open discussions. But at the very least, shouldn’t everyone be equipped with the basic knowledge of the NPT—the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty—that we all learned in civics class?

Japan is a signatory to the NPT. This means we are legally prohibited from possessing nuclear weapons.

Article II
Each non-nuclear-weapon State Party to the Treaty undertakes not to receive the transfer from any transferor whatsoever of nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices or of control over such weapons or explosive devices directly, or indirectly; not to manufacture or otherwise acquire nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices; and not to seek or receive any assistance in the manufacture of nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices.

Article IX (3)
For the purposes of this Treaty, a nuclear-weapon State is one which has manufactured and exploded a nuclear weapon or other nuclear explosive device prior to 1 January 1967.

In other words, under the NPT, only five countries are permitted to possess nuclear weapons: the United States, Russia, the United Kingdom, France, and China.
If Japan were ever to acquire nuclear weapons, it would have to withdraw from the NPT.

What would happen if Japan were to leave the NPT? We would almost certainly face severe backlash from the international community. There’s even a possibility that Japan could be attacked, just as the U.S. recently struck Iran’s nuclear facilities. And let’s not forget: Japan is a resource-poor country. We can’t even feed ourselves without imports. If those imports were cut off, our economy and society would grind to a halt. It would be a return to the days of the ABCD line that strangled Japan before WWII.

So when someone claims that nuclear weapons are the “cheapest” form of deterrence for Japan, I honestly can’t understand what part of this scenario looks “cheap” to them.

By the way, my elementary school’s class trip destination was Hiroshima. We visited the famous torii gate at Miyajima, bought souvenirs, and toured the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. The museum was packed with schoolchildren on field trips, as well as ordinary visitors. Every exhibit was so shocking, so harrowing, that it was hard to look at them directly. As I moved through the crowd, letting myself be carried along almost passively, there came a moment when, all of a sudden, there was no one in front of me. On the floor at my feet, someone had vomited. Honestly, if I had really allowed myself to confront the reality shown in those displays, I think I would have been overwhelmed in the very same way.

Japanese vs American Weddings: Costs and Customs

 Recently, I read in the news that the wedding hall business in Japan is facing tough times. Even in my own city, two venues I knew of have closed their doors in just the past few years. According to a report from 2024, over 30% of Japanese wedding halls are running at a deficit, and if you include those whose profits have declined year-on-year, nearly 60% saw their business worsen last year.

It’s not hard to see why. With Japan’s population rapidly aging and the number of young people shrinking every year, there are simply fewer couples tying the knot. On top of that, the sluggish economy means that fewer newlyweds have the means (or desire) to splurge on lavish receptions. It seems likely this “wedding winter” will only continue.

That said, the very way weddings are approached is quite different in Japan and the United States.

In Japan, getting legally married is as simple as submitting a marriage registration form, signed by two witnesses, to your local city office. There’s no legal requirement for a wedding ceremony at all—it’s entirely optional. You can have a big event, a small one, or skip it altogether and you’re just as married in the eyes of the law.

By contrast, I got married in California, where a ceremony is actually part of the legal process. After obtaining a marriage license from the County Clerk’s office, you must have a solemnization (the official ceremony) with witnesses and an authorized officiant within 90 days, then return the signed license to make your marriage official. In our case, one of my husband’s friends generously volunteered as our officiant, and I have to say—our wedding remains one of my happiest memories.

Because I’m a Japanese citizen, getting married in America didn’t magically update my official documents back home. I had to submit my American marriage certificate, along with a marriage registration, to the city office in Japan.

Our wedding rings

Japan has been debating the idea of allowing married couples to keep separate surnames, but as of now, the law requires both spouses to share a family name. You’re technically free to choose either the husband’s or wife’s surname, but about 96% of couples opt for the husband’s.

There is, however, a special rule for international marriages: Japanese citizens are allowed to keep their original surname if they wish. In my case, though, I actually wanted to take my husband’s last name, even in Japan, so I made the switch on all my Japanese documents as well.

My Japanese family registry, with the line: “Marriage conducted under the laws of the State of California, USA

Getting back to the state of wedding venues—why are they struggling? One major reason is simply the cost. According to the “Zexy Wedding Trend Survey 2024,” the national average for a Japanese wedding (ceremony plus reception) is a whopping ¥3,439,000 (about $23,000), with an average guest count of 52 people.

Unlike the U.S., where wedding guests usually bring gifts, Japanese wedding receptions are funded in large part by cash gifts from guests, presented in decorative envelopes called goshugi-bukuro (ご祝儀袋). Friends typically give ¥30,000, bosses around ¥50,000, and so on. The entire system is built on the expectation that the bride and groom will recoup much of their wedding costs through these monetary gifts.

If you want to dig into the etiquette, there’s a whole world of rules: for example, you’re supposed to give crisp, new bills in odd numbers— like, three bills of ¥10,000, but never an even number. Even numbers are thought to be unlucky, since they can be “split” and thus symbolize a divided relationship. So even if you’re giving the same amount, handing over six ¥5,000 notes would be considered a faux pas. The bills should also be brand-new, to celebrate the couple’s “fresh start.” Honestly, I suspect most of us, including myself, roll our eyes at these elaborate rules and think they’re a bit much, but nobody wants to be “that guest” who flouts tradition and makes things awkward, so we go along with it.

Personally, I never had any desire to invite acquaintances I wasn’t particularly close to, let alone throw a glitzy reception funded by expensive gifts from distant friends. For me, the ideal wedding was exactly what I had in California—a small, intimate ceremony surrounded by my husband’s closest friends and family.

Japan’s Employment Ice Age: A Generation Lost in Stagnation

 In recent years, news reports about Japan’s so-called “employment ice age” (就職氷河期, shushoku hyogaki) generation have become a daily occurrence. The term “employment ice age” refers to people who graduated from school mainly between the mid-1990s and early 2000s—a cohort largely made up of the children of Japan’s postwar baby boomers. As a result, this group is remarkably large, accounting for an estimated 17 million people, or roughly 13% of Japan’s total population according to government and private sector estimates.

The emergence of this “ice age” generation can be traced to a profound structural shift in the Japanese economy. After the collapse of the economic bubble in the early 1990s, corporate earnings plummeted, and companies sharply reduced new graduate hiring. In this prolonged period of economic stagnation and job insecurity, the competition for available positions became fiercer than ever. “Stress interviews” (圧迫面接, appaku mensetsu) and other high-pressure, borderline abusive screening techniques became the norm. There were even notorious cases where candidates were told, “If you’re hot, please take off your jacket,” only to be summarily dismissed with, “Those who removed their jackets may leave,” before the interview even began. Such senseless cruelty was not uncommon.

Even for those who managed to land a job, the working conditions were often brutal: low wages, excessively long hours from early morning to late at night, and a workplace culture rife with sexual and power harassment. Many young people suffered serious physical and mental health issues as a result. Some might suggest simply changing jobs, but in Japan, there has long been a strong “new graduate supremacy” (新卒至上主義, shinsotsu shijoshugi) ethos, where companies prioritize hiring students fresh out of school over other applicants. Once someone fell off the “regular track,” it became extremely difficult to be hired as a full-time employee again. Thus, this entire generation was condemned to chronic disadvantage simply for having graduated in an era of economic malaise.

At the time, the social climate was saturated with the rhetoric of “personal responsibility” (自己責任, jiko sekinin). Although the employment ice age was the product of a systemic failure rather than a lack of personal merit or effort, society at large shifted the blame onto individuals, insisting that if people were struggling, it was the result of their own poor choices.

As of 2025, members of the employment ice age generation are now between 41 and 55 years old. Many still work in non-regular jobs, and even those who have secured regular employment often earn less than other generations. Economic hardship is widespread, and a significant number have never married or started families—another stark legacy of this era.

Today, Japan’s severe demographic crisis, marked by a rapidly shrinking working-age population struggling to support a swelling elderly cohort, can be seen as the delayed consequence of how this generation was abandoned under the banner of “self-responsibility.” Had more effective policy interventions been made twenty years ago, the worsening population crisis might have been at least partially mitigated.

Looking at this situation, one is reminded of the insights of 18th-century economist Adam Smith, who wrote in The Wealth of Nations:

“It deserves to be remarked, perhaps, that it is in the progressive state, while the society is advancing to the further acquisition, rather than when it has acquired its full complement of riches, that the condition of the labouring poor, of the great body of the people, seems to be the happiest and the most comfortable. It is hard in the stationary, and miserable in the declining state. The progressive state is, in reality, the cheerful and the hearty state to all the different orders of the society; the stationary is dull; the declining melancholy.”

These words, written over 250 years ago, strikingly capture the plight of Japan’s employment ice age generation. From the mid-1950s to the early 1970s, Japan’s economy grew at a breakneck pace, to the point where Western nations disparaged the Japanese as “economic animals.” But after the bubble burst, workers found themselves treated as disposable, bought cheap and regarded as almost worthless. The true consequences of this systemic failure are only now coming to the surface, and Japan is entering an era in which it will have no choice but to face the cost of these long-ignored social distortions.

Even in rural Ehime and Kagawa, the legacy of Japan’s Bubble Economy is easy to spot, often in the form of enormous towers, public halls, sprawling parks, or theme parks that seem oddly out of place for towns of their size.

When Test Scores Trump Honesty: Reflections on the TOEIC Proxy Scandal

 In Japan, the TOEIC exam is practically a rite of passage for job seekers and career changers. For many, a high TOEIC score opens doors—so it’s no wonder the test has become big business. But in recent years, it’s also become big news for all the wrong reasons.

Lately, there’s been a surge in so-called “proxy test-taking” scandals, where someone hires another person—a ringer, if you will—to take the exam on their behalf. The headlines this spring were particularly striking: a graduate student at Kyoto University was arrested for taking the test in someone else’s place, and dozens of people who hired him or used the same shady services were also charged.

According to the news, entire networks of brokers operate on social media, advertising things like “guaranteed high scores” and “you’ll never get caught!” Since a TOEIC score can make or break a job or study abroad opportunity, desperate clients fork over tens of thousands of yen for the chance to outsource their exam—and their integrity.

In May 2025, a Chinese national studying at Kyoto University tried to take the TOEIC for someone else. AI-powered facial recognition and vigilant test staff quickly caught on. The police traced his application records and payment transfers, uncovering about forty clients linked by the same address. Several of these clients were formally questioned and charged with inciting document forgery and other crimes.

It’s easy to see why a high TOEIC score is tempting, but I have to wonder: does cheating really pay off? Wouldn’t your boss eventually notice if your English doesn’t live up to your impressive score? I can’t help but imagine some awkward office moments—“Wait, I thought you spoke English?”

On a side note, there’s a familiar refrain in Japan that “Japanese people can’t speak English because our education system is terrible.” Personally, I don’t buy it.

In my view, there are two main reasons Japanese people struggle with English.

First, Japanese and English are worlds apart in terms of grammar and structure. The Foreign Service Institute (FSI) actually ranks Japanese as a Category V language, the toughest for English speakers to learn. There’s even an asterisk next to Japanese in their rankings, saying “Languages preceded by asterisks are usually more difficult for native English speakers to learn than other languages in the same category.”

In other words, the feeling is mutual, English is one of the hardest languages for native Japanese speakers, too.

Second, there’s simply no pressing need for English in daily life here. Sure, a high TOEIC score is a nice boost when job hunting, but most Japanese people can get through life—and even academia—without ever having to use English. Practically every textbook, from psychology to medicine, is available in Japanese translation, so students can become experts in their fields without mastering English.

And yet, if so many people are willing to pay serious money to cheat on their English exams, maybe the stakes are changing. Maybe English is becoming less “optional” in Japan. But honestly, I hope we never reach the point where you can’t get by in your own country without a foreign language. There’s something wonderful about living in a society that’s self-sufficient in its own language.

For what it’s worth, I took the TOEIC once, just out of curiosity, without any practice or preparation. My score? 920, far from perfect, I know.

Where Have All the Cicadas Gone? An Unusual Summer 2025

This summer in Ehime has been eerily quiet compared to years past. Usually, the moment the rainy season ends, the chorus of cicadas—especially the minmin-zemi and abura-zemi—bursts to life, filling the air with that unmistakable “summer is here!” soundtrack. But here we are, already heading into late July of 2025, and yet their voices are strangely absent. I was curious whether it was just me, but a quick scroll through the internet and social media revealed that many others across the region are echoing the same feeling: “Where have all the cicadas gone?” “Why is it so oddly silent this summer?”

↑ An abura-zemi I photographed with my DSLR

After reading through expert opinions and fellow bloggers’ observations, a consensus emerges, the rare combination of an unusually short rainy season and an early, relentless heat wave seems to be the main culprit behind this year’s cicada drought. In 2025, the rainy season ended at breakneck speed—so quickly, in fact, that in my corner of Shikoku, we saw the earliest end to tsuyu (梅雨) in living memory. This meant that even after the official “end of the rains,” there was barely any precipitation, and the ground dried out rapidly while the heat soared.

Cicada nymphs, as it turns out, rely on subtle changes in soil temperature and humidity to know when it’s time to emerge. This year, the ground heated up far too quickly, and the soil became baked and hard, possibly robbing the nymphs of their usual cues. Some experts speculate that many simply missed their window to crawl out.

And if the cicadas did manage to make it to the surface, they faced yet another hurdle: the daily high temperatures, which have routinely soared above 35°C (95°F) since the end of the rainy season. As a result, the adult cicadas have been keeping a low profile during the hottest part of the day, only singing briefly in the early mornings or evenings when things are a bit cooler. I’ve seen some people mention that you can catch a few faint chirps around dawn or dusk, but those midday, wall-of-sound cicada symphonies I remember from childhood have all but vanished. Back then, the air used to tremble with their noise, the sound coming at you from every direction.

Of course, there are long-term issues too, urban development, pesticides, and herbicides likely play a role in gradually shrinking cicada populations, but for this summer, it’s clear that the timing mismatch and extreme weather were a one-two punch. This was simply a “perfect storm” for a silent summer.

Depending on the species, cicada nymphs can spend anywhere from a few years to up to seventeen years underground before finally emerging for their brief time in the sun. If this was the year they finally worked up the courage to come out, only to be thwarted by freak weather, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for them...

My Take on the 2025 Japanese Upper House Election

 A national election was held in Japan on July 20th.

Simple good-versus-evil narratives—us (the righteous) vs. them (the villains)—always seem to resonate with conspiracy theorists. In this year’s Upper House election, a certain party that loudly championed the slogan “Japan First” and trafficked in wild conspiracy theories made significant gains.

Despite stirring up division by blaming foreigners for many of Japan’s woes, the party’s leader, when asked in a post-election interview, “Do you think foreigners have special privileges in Japan?” simply shrugged and replied, “Special privileges for foreigners? I don’t think Japan has anything like that.”

As I watched the interview, I couldn’t help but think: conspiracy theories are a handy tool for attracting followers, but the more power one gains, the more inconvenient such fantasies become.

Just last month, I wrote skeptically about that “July 5th prophecy” that sent the spiritual crowd into a frenzy. I have little patience for occult nonsense or conspiracy thinking. Without hard evidence or any way to confirm it with your own eyes, why take such theories any more seriously than, “Well, I suppose anything’s possible”? Blind belief is out of the question.

That said, while I don’t care for that particular party, I find it bizarre that the media is dogpiling on them by claiming the very slogan “Japan First” is discriminatory. It’s perfectly normal for any country to prioritize its own citizens, especially in terms of taxpayers’ rights and fairness. In that context, “Japan First” does not mean “foreigners out.”

On a related note, Japan’s problem of “overtourism” has been making headlines for quite some time now.

After three decades of economic stagnation, the Japanese have become shockingly poor. Real wages have been falling for years, and according to the IMF, Japan’s GDP per capita (PPP, 2025) ranks 38th in the world. The Japanese, who once ranked 2nd in the world in terms of per capita wealth, now find themselves far removed from those prosperous days.

Wherever you go, tourist spots are crowded with affluent foreign visitors. More and more Japanese find themselves unable to enjoy the very services their own country provides. That, I suspect, is why the phrase “Japan First” has started to resonate with so many people.

Given that Japan is considered a relatively high-tax country, with a national burden rate hovering around 46%, it seems only fair that more local facilities offer resident discounts or even free entry, as is common in cities like San Francisco. 

In San Francisco, city-run parks and museums, maintained by residents’ taxes, often feature “resident discounts” or “resident free admission.” Show your ID, and you can stroll in for free or at a steep discount.

It’s only natural that locals might feel disgruntled when tourist attractions, built and maintained with their tax money, are overrun by visitors, making it hard for residents to get in. Resident perks, then, are just a reasonable way to keep things balanced.

Never Become a Politician’s Fan

On the 20th of this month, Japan will hold a national election that could dramatically shape our country’s future. I’ve already cast my vote at an early polling station.

Looking at the state of Japanese politics these days, I can’t help but notice how some politicians are worshipped almost like religious leaders, with devoted “followers” hanging on their every word. Honestly, I find it all rather unsettling.

Supporting your favorite idol or celebrity, what’s now called “推し活(oshi-katsu)” is, at the end of the day, just a harmless hobby (though, truth be told, I’ve never understood the urge to chase after entertainers or collect their merchandise, but hey, to each their own). Politics, however, is a whole different animal. The actions of politicians have a direct impact on our daily lives, for better or worse.

Let’s not forget: in a democracy, the people are the true sovereigns. Elections are simply the process by which we temporarily entrust enormous power to a handful of representatives. Our job is not to become fans or followers, but to serve as cold-eyed judges—scrutinizing these politicians, holding them to account, and swapping them out whenever necessary.

The more uncertain the times, the more people seem to long for a “strong leader” or someone who will “fight for Japan.” There’s comfort in clinging to the idea that this person alone can be trusted, or that that politician is on our side. But this mindset, I would argue, is the very definition of dangerous complacency for any citizen in a democracy.

We are not meant to be cheerleaders for politicians. No matter how impressive their résumé or how sweet their promises, we must maintain enough distance and clarity to see the interests and calculations behind the mask.

After all, why place blind faith in the words of a complete stranger—someone you’ve never lived with under the same roof—who’s ultimately saying whatever it takes to get elected? The only things we should put our trust in are their policies, actions, and the results those actions produce.

Our role is to keep scoring them, dispassionately, methodically, and if they come up short, to replace them at the next opportunity. That, in my view, is the true responsibility of a democratic citizen.

Everybody’s Right, Nobody’s Responsible

 I'm fed up with modern society. It's like a broken record, endlessly repeating "rights, rights, rights!" Of course everyone has rights—that's obvious, everyone knows that. But along with rights come responsibilities, and I think it's utterly irresponsible to brandish rights without considering anything else. In my view, rights are inherently something that should be limited to some extent by the impact they have on others, as well as by the duties we must fulfill. Yet when you say something like this, you risk being labeled a bigot, a racist, or something along those lines. These days, the word "discrimination" has become so convenient—just call something discriminatory and you can push through any argument. I'm sure I'm not the only one who's sick of this sort of thing. Society is supposed to extend a helping hand to the vulnerable, but when a handful of extreme activists abuse the "discrimination card," even those who genuinely need protection end up being resented. Isn't that a loss for society as a whole? I really don't like this trend...

Arcades that aren't too crowded are calming as hell

Tanabata Folklore - Shinobu Orikuchi's Perspective

Tonight, July 7th, is 七夕(Tanabata), the Star Festival in Japan. Here, it’s customary to write wishes on slender strips of colored paper called 短冊(tanzaku) and hang them on bamboo branches. As you can see in the photo below, supermarkets across Japan set up Tanabata displays as early as June, allowing anyone to freely write a wish and decorate the bamboo with their own tanzaku. In this post, I’d like to explore the folklore of Tanabata, drawing on the work of the renowned scholar Shinobu Orikuchi.

The True Face of Tanabata

— Japan’s Star Festival Through the Lens of Shinobu Orikuchi

This post summarizes and selectively quotes the folklorist 折口信夫 Shinobu Orikuchi (1887‑1953) and his 1931 essay “Tanabata and the Bon Festival,” rendered into modern English for today’s readers.

1. Wasn’t Tanabata on the Night of July 7th?

When we picture Tanabata we imagine writing wishes on colorful slips, hanging them on bamboo the evening of July 7th. Orikuchi, however, notes that the original festival ran from the night of July 6th straight through to dawn on the 7th. Old‑calendar rites in Nagano and in Okinawa still begin on the 6th, preserving what he calls the “classical form.”

2. Tanabata Isn’t a “Hanging Shelf” at All

The word 七夕(Tanabata) is an ateji for 棚機 (tanabata). Far from a dainty hanging shelf, it once meant a high‑floor platform or stage that juts out from ground or floor—a sacred place to welcome a god.

棚は、天井からなりと、床上になりと、自由に、たななるものは、作る事が出来た

“Whether it hangs from the ceiling or rises from the floor, anything that sets a space apart can be called a tana.” (Orikuchi)

On this platform a young maiden wove cloth for the visiting deity. That maiden, the Tanabatatsume, is the prototype that folk belief later merged with the Chinese Weaver Star myth, giving us today’s “Orihime.”

Term	Meaning	Modern Echo
棚機 Tanabata	High‑floor / cantilevered stage for welcoming gods	Bon shelves, treasure storehouses, shrine
さずき/やぐら Sazuki / Yagura	Roof‑less provisional platforms, often over water	Festival towers, pleasure barges
棚機つ女Tanabatatsume	Maiden who weaves on the shelf for a water‑borne serpent god	Orihime, star‑shaped dolls on bamboo

3. Tanabata + Bon = One Continuous Cycle

Orikuchi stresses that 七夕 Tanabata and お盆 Obon were originally two halves of a single midsummer cycle. The youthful “guest god” welcomed at Tanabata departs by dawn, then ancestors arrive for Bon.

夏秋の交叉祭りは、存外早く、固有・外来種が融合を遂げた。

“Summer–autumn crossover rites fused native and imported elements with surprising speed.” (Orikuchi)

The bamboo decorations still double as a purification rite. Tossing paper dolls or streamers into a river was, in Orikuchi’s reading, a way to “top up” the cloth that the Tanabatatsume alone could not finish in time.

4. Ikimitama and the Forgotten “Bon Furnace”

Between Tanabata and Bon lurked another ceremony: the 生き御霊 Ikimitama Festival, “Living Souls Day.” Just as New Year’s brings “Happy New Year,” villagers once offered a midsummer “Happy Bon” to elders, complete with a gift of salted mackerel.

Meanwhile village girls secluded themselves beside a temporary garden hearth called a bongama. Fasting and tending the fire, they enacted a pre‑coming‑of‑age retreat, mirroring the boys’ New‑Year camps in snow huts or bird blinds.

5. Yabu‑iri, Enma Pilgrimages, and Mid‑Year Resets

New Year and Bon were not mere calendars; they were reset buttons for social contracts. Servants got leave to visit home (藪入り yabu‑iri), while bosses renewed hires (出替り dekawari). All of it hinged on the Great Purification (大祓 Oharae), the belief that one could shake off the past and start fresh twice a year.

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6. Before You Write Your Wish…

• Tanabata originally starts at nightfall on July 6th.

• The “shelf” is a jutting stage where a maiden wove brand‑new cloth for a watery deity.

• Tanabata and Obon form a single cycle, greeting guest gods and ancestral spirits back‑to‑back.

• Living‑soul blessings, bongama retreats, and servant homecomings layered together to create the Tanabata we know today.

So next time you tie a wish to bamboo, imagine that lone girl on a high moonlit platform, weaving brilliance for a visiting god. It may lend your wish a bit of her ancient sparkle.