The Quiet Art of Reading

 In recent years, it’s become common to hear that children are reading less and less, and the numbers seem to bear that out.

According to the PISA survey (which measures the academic performance of 15-year-olds worldwide), Japan ranked fourth in reading literacy in 2012. By 2015 it had slipped to eighth, and by 2018, all the way down to fifteenth. In another survey of cram school teachers, 82% said they felt that “students with weak reading comprehension have increased.”

Of course, PISA rankings are relative, Japan’s score may have fallen in part because other countries improved. But it seems hard to deny that Japanese students’ overall reading ability is in decline.

Dr. Noriko Arai of the National Institute of Informatics once created a deceptively simple test of Japanese reading comprehension, known as the Alexandra Syntax Problem. It goes like this:

“Alex” is a name used for both males and females. It is a short form of “Alexandra,” a female name, but also of “Alexander,” a male name.

Question: In this context, what is the nickname for “Alexandra”?
(1) Alex (2) Alexander (3) Male (4) Female

At first glance, it seems almost childishly easy. Yet, according to Arai’s research, only 38% of public junior high students answered correctly—and even among students at elite high schools, the accuracy rate was only 65%. (The correct answer, of course, is (1) Alex.)

How one interprets this result may vary, but to me the conclusion is clear: when people stop reading, they lose their grasp of language. A Benesse survey found that 49% of students reported spending zero minutes reading for pleasure on a typical weekday. The average reading time fell from 18.2 minutes per day in 2015 to 15.2 minutes in 2022. In another study, the average number of books read per month by elementary school students dropped from 9.1 in 1989 to just 3.1 in 2019.

And this decline in reading comprehension isn’t confined to children. Browse the comment sections of online news articles, and you’ll find countless people unable to understand even a few lines of text accurately. They react to single words without grasping context, twist arguments beyond recognition, and before long, the discussion devolves into personal attacks. We’ve all seen it happen, and it’s disheartening every time.

A brief digression: my favorite local bookstore closed its doors this spring. Of course, we can still buy books online or read them digitally, but I can’t help preferring paper. I love the scent of ink and paper when I open a book, the quiet sound of a page turning, the feel of it between my fingers, and that tactile memory of knowing a particular line was “somewhere near the bottom left of page 120.” Reading, to me, is not a purely visual act; it’s a sensory experience. And I like having my favorite books as tangible companions, resting quietly on the shelf.

My beloved book "Escape from Freedom," which I bought as a teenager, was written by German-born social psychologist Erich Fromm and published in 1941, while the world was still shaken by Hitler's totalitarianism. Drawing from his analysis of Germany's embrace of Nazism, it examines the root causes that brought the nation to such circumstances and the forces that led the people to advance willingly down that road.

In today’s world, loneliness has become almost the default condition of modern life. Social media may have been invented to connect people, but somewhere along the way it turned into a machine that amplifies isolation.

That’s why I love reading. Reading allows us to enjoy solitude—to walk through another person’s thoughts, trace the author’s mind, sense the world between the lines. You can’t read at a party or while chatting with friends.

Costco Comes to Toon

 When I opened the morning edition of the Ehime Shimbun, a bold headline leapt off the page:

“Costco to Open in 東温(Toon), Shikoku’s First, Targeting Late 2027.”

The store will be built in Toon City, only a short drive from my home in Matsuyama. For years, young people in Shikoku have looked enviously at other regions where Costco’s giant warehouse stores already stood. The fact that this news appeared on the front page says everything about how significant it is for our prefecture.

The front page of the Ehime Shimbun.

Btw, the city name Toon (東温) is pronounced “Toh-on,” with two distinct syllables. English speakers read “Toon” as in “cartoon,” but in Japanese it’s softer and longer, almost like saying “toe-on.”

According to the report, the Costco Wholesale Toon Warehouse will occupy a 66,000-square-meter lot just south of the Fujigrand Shigenobu shopping complex. The facility will include parking for about 1,000 cars and an attached gas station, with an estimated 400 employees.
At the press conference, Ehime Governor Tokihiro Nakamura and Toon Mayor Akira Kato shook hands with Costco Japan’s president, Ken Theriault—a symbolic moment sealing Ehime’s long-awaited connection with a global retail powerhouse.

Local reactions, however, have been a mixed bag.
Many residents are thrilled—saying things like “Finally, we don’t have to drive all the way to Kobe or Hiroshima for Costco!”—while others express concern about weekend traffic jams on Route 11, noise from the gas station, or the future of smaller local shops.

Incidentally, Japanese people pronounce the name as “Cost-to-co” (コストコ), clearly enunciating the t sound in the middle. In English, however, the t is almost silent, the tongue briefly touches the alveolar ridge but releases no sound before gliding into co. The result is something closer to [kɑːskoʊ].

 So why “コストコ” in Japanese? Perhaps it’s because コスコ—without the t—was already taken by China COSCO Shipping Corporation Limited, a major Chinese shipping company. Besides, that extra “to” adds a hint of rhythm and warmth, almost like the onomatopoeia tokotoko—the gentle sound of little footsteps. To Japanese ears, “コストコ” feels friendlier, even a bit cute.

I often drive past the planned construction site, so I’ll be able to watch the warehouse gradually take shape, enjoying the countdown until its 2027 opening.

The Curious Case of Japan’s “Blue” Traffic Light

 In Japan, what we call the green light is known as “青信号 (blue light).” Yet the actual color is a bluish green, unmistakably closer to green than to blue. If you were to ask, “Is that blue or green?” almost everyone would answer, “It’s green.” And still, everyone calls it blue.

Back in the days of incandescent bulbs, before LEDs took over, the light looked even greener. When I was a child, I couldn’t quite accept that. On my walk home from school, I once pointed at the signal and asked my friend, “Isn’t that green?” She nodded and said, “Yeah, it is.” But still, everyone around us kept calling it “blue.” How curious that was.

Japanese “blue” traffic light — clearly bluish green

The story goes back to 1930, when Japan installed its first mechanical traffic lights at the Hibiya intersection in Tokyo. They were imported from the United States, so naturally, the three colors were red, yellow, and green. In other words, it started out as a green light.

But when newspapers and magazines reported it as blue, yellow, and red, the phrase 青信号 (blue light) caught on among the public.

In older Japanese, the word 青—blue—covered a much wider range than it does today. It included what we now call green. That’s why we still say 青葉 (green leaves), 青菜 (leafy greens), and 青りんご (green apples).

Originally, the legal term for the signal was “green light.” However, by 1947, the word 青信号 had become so common that the law was officially revised to read “blue light.” That wording remains unchanged in the Road Traffic Act to this day.

Then, around the year 2000, Japan began replacing old traffic lights with LEDs. The color shifted slightly toward blue, as if the light itself were moving closer to match its name.

Interestingly, modern American traffic lights are nearly the same bluish-green hue as those in Japan. And yet, Americans have never stopped calling it a green light. The light we see may be identical, but the way we describe it—and thus the way we perceive it—depends on language.

Green light in San Francisco — bluish green, just like Japan’s

Language doesn’t merely label colors, it defines where we draw the lines between them, and how we feel about what we see.

For the Japanese, 青 (blue) evokes purity, youth, freshness.

For English speakers, green represents nature, safety, calm.

So when that bluish-green signal glows above the street, Japanese hearts see blue, while American eyes see green. The light is the same, but the worlds it belongs to—are ever so slightly different. How fascinating!

The Myth of Jiatama – A Word That Comforts the Uneducated

 In Japan, there is a curious term that has become something of a buzzword: “Jiatama” (地頭).

It’s often used in the phrase “He’s got good jiatama,” meaning “He’s smart, even though he doesn’t have an academic background.”

At first glance, it might seem similar to the English term “street-smart,” but in truth, it is the exact opposite. Street-smart refers to practical intelligence, the kind of wisdom one earns through surviving real danger and uncertainty. It belongs to those who have truly faced the world and learned to navigate it.

“Jiatama,” on the other hand, is a form of wishful thinking, the belief that one is secretly intelligent, despite any evidence to support it. It is, in essence, a comforting illusion for those who never applied themselves.

After graduating from a national university, I worked for a publicly listed company in Tokyo. The work was demanding but fulfilling, until relentless harassment and overwork wore me down. Eventually, I left and returned to my hometown in Ehime.

At my new job, I encountered a kind of employee I had never seen in Tokyo. It was there that I first heard the word jiatama from someone’s mouth.

“I’ve got good jiatama,”
one middle-aged male coworker declared confidently.

Yet it was I who constantly fixed his mistakes and carried the weight of his unfinished work. If that was what “good jiatama” looked like, I wanted no part of it.

In Japan, people often say, “Some folks are quick-witted, even if they’re not well educated.” But more often than not, such claims serve as a consolation prize for those who despise learning. To study is to confront one’s own ignorance, and that can be an uncomfortable act. Perhaps that is why the word jiatama was invented: to justify not learning, and to turn laziness into a virtue.

Few expressions are as convenient — or as hollow — as “I’ve got good jiatama.” 

If someone were truly intelligent, they would have no trouble mastering the structured knowledge of formal education. Only those who persevere and continue learning can ever see the larger systems that shape the world. Thus, while good grades may not be a sufficient condition of intelligence, they are almost certainly a necessary one.

People are not born equal. But in a developed country like Japan, the opportunity to make an effort is equally available to all. If someone could not study properly as a child, there are still countless chances to learn as an adult — through languages, professional qualifications, or any serious pursuit of knowledge.

To abandon those opportunities and still boast, “I’m smart — I’ve got good jiatama,” is not intelligence at all. It is simply proof of one’s cluelessness.

To learn is, in the Socratic sense, to know that you know nothing. I believe true wisdom begins not with pride, but with humility, the quiet courage to face one’s own ignorance, again and again.

A Night at Tobe Zoo

 On the night of October 11th, a long line stretched before the ticket booth at the entrance of Tobe Zoo. It was a completely different world from the one seen in daylight. The rhythmic chirping of insects mingled with laughter and conversation, turning the night air into something that felt almost festive.

Held on Saturday evenings from late September through mid-October, the “Night Zoo” has become one of Ehime’s most beloved autumn traditions.

this year it was held on October 4, 11, and 18.

The zoo was crowded everywhere I looked, as if the animals themselves were observing a great gathering of Homo sapiens. And yet, there was beauty in the scene — elephants standing under soft lights, a giraffe gently tilting its long neck, and a hippo surfacing through the shimmering reflections of water — all exuding a quiet, dreamlike charm unseen in the day.

three female African elephants standing close together, one partly hidden behind the leaves.

Tobe Zoo traces its origins to the Ehime Prefectural Dogo (道後) Zoo, founded in Matsuyama in 1953. Due to environmental and space constraints, it was relocated to its present site in Tobe Town in April 1988. Today, it stands as one of western Japan’s leading zoological parks, cherished by families, photographers, and animal lovers alike.

When I was little, I misunderstood the name Tobe Zoo — not realizing that “Tobe (砥部)” was the name of the town. In my mind, it meant tobe, as in "to fly (飛べ)," and I imagined a "Flying Zoo," a place filled with roller coasters and soaring rides, more of an amusement park than a zoo.

Anyone who has studied even a little Japanese would know that the language is full of　homonyms — words that sound identical but carry entirely different meanings.

gliding underwater like a silent submarine

I have always loved public cultural spaces — national parks, prefectural museums, city libraries.

There is a quiet gentleness in Japan’s public institutions. Prefectural zoos and museums may seem modest, yet they hold a sincere desire to nurture curiosity and provide moments of learning and joy. You can feel it in the handwritten signs prepared by staff, and in the soft gleam of old display cases carefully polished over the years. Such details reflect the warmth and conscientious spirit that define Japan itself.

At Tobe Zoo, an adult can enjoy all of this for just 600 yen — a price that represents more than affordability.
It reflects a cultural philosophy: that access to knowledge and beauty should remain open to everyone. Public cultural spaces are not only places where memories are made, but also where minds are quietly enriched. I can only hope that such places continue to be cherished and preserved, passed down gently from one generation to the next.

If Only the Pheasant Had Kept Silent

 Many old Japanese folktales end in sorrow.

It is not unique to Japan—around the world, old stories often share this shadow. The Grimms’ fairy tales are filled with tragedy, and Mother Goose rhymes can be downright cruel.
The darkness of those stories reflects the harsh realities of the time—famine, disease, war, and the loss of infants. People told such tales to their children not to comfort them, but to prepare them for a merciless world.

There is a Japanese proverb that says, “雉も鳴かずば撃たれまい (If the pheasant hadn’t cried, it wouldn’t have been shot)” It warns that careless words invite misfortune.

Let me tell you one of my favorite—yet saddest—stories related to that saying.

まんが日本昔ばなし - キジも鳴かずば

 Long ago, by the banks of the River Saigawa, there was a small village. Every autumn, the river swelled with heavy rains and flooded the fields. In that village lived a poor farmer named Yahei and his daughter, Ochiyo. Her mother had already been swept away by one such flood.

 One autumn, Ochiyo fell gravely ill. Yahei had no money to call a doctor. As her strength faded, she whispered that she longed for azuki-manma—rice cooked with red beans—a dish she had once shared with her late mother.
 But Yahei was penniless. Desperate, he stole a handful of rice and beans from the landlord’s storehouse and cooked the meal for his daughter.

Miraculously, Ochiyo recovered.
One day, as her father was working in the fields, she played with her handball and sang,

“Azuki-manma, I ate some—Azuki-manma, it was so sweet.”

That innocent song was overheard.

 That night, the rain began to pour again, heavier than before.
In the dim light of their homes, the villagers gathered in fear and whispered among themselves that a wrongdoer must be offered to the river as a sacrifice.
 When someone mentioned the song and the stolen rice, Yahei was seized by the officials and buried alive at the riverbank as a hitobashira—a human pillar to calm the waters.

 Ochiyo wept for days on end.
Then, one day, she stopped crying and never spoke another word.

Years passed.

 A hunter once heard the cry of a pheasant and shot it down.
When he went to retrieve his prey, he found Ochiyo cradling the dying bird in her arms.

She whispered,

“Poor pheasant… if only you had kept silent, you would not have been shot.”

She saw in the bird her own guilt—the innocent voice that had doomed her father.
 After that day, no one ever saw Ochiyo again.

Patriotism Hijacked

 According to the Yomiuri Shimbun, Russia’s state-run media and its embassy in Japan sharply increased the number of Japan-language social-media posts criticizing Tokyo’s support for Ukraine beginning in January this year. The Japanese government’s analysis suggests that Moscow was waging an information war designed to divide public opinion in Japan and steer sentiment toward reducing aid to Kyiv. Reports indicate that Russia’s state outlets and the embassy’s official X account ramped up activity right after January 20, 2024—the day President Trump signed an executive order temporarily suspending U.S. foreign assistance.

The posts typically framed messages such as “Stop ODA and foreign aid—use the money at home” as if they reflected the authentic voice of ordinary Japanese citizens. Others cited  Trump’s remark that “USAID is a hotbed of corruption and a funding source for media manipulation,” drawing parallels between the U.S. agency and Japan’s own development agency, JICA, calling it “the Japanese version of USAID.” Japanese officials have described these campaigns as “a sophisticated form of impression management.”

At the Tokyo International Conference on African Development held in Yokohama this August, JICA announced its Africa Hometown initiative, linking several Japanese municipalities with partner countries in Africa. The project’s stated goal was to foster exchange and technical cooperation—not immigration. Yet soon after the announcement, city halls in participating municipalities were inundated with angry phone calls. On social media, the program was denounced as “a cover for bringing African migrants to Japan.” Despite repeated government explanations that this was a misunderstanding, the protests continued unabated, and on September 25 JICA decided to withdraw the plan altogether.

Roughly ten days later, the Yomiuri Shimbun reported that the very anti-immigration hysteria that fueled the backlash had, in fact, been amplified by Russian disinformation efforts. Africa today is a region where both China and Russia are rapidly expanding their influence—China through its Belt and Road Initiative, building ports, railways, and power plants; Russia through private military contractors operating under the guise of “security” and “resource development.” In such a landscape, development programs backed by the United States’ USAID or Japan’s JICA are deeply inconvenient for Moscow and Beijing. Hence, as the Yomiuri article implies, Russia has sought to manipulate Japan’s right-wing circles to turn public opinion against international assistance and broader diplomatic engagement.

I find the recent wave of so-called patriotic activism by Japan’s self-described conservatives deeply unsettling. It resembles a kind of cult. Many of them equate themselves with the Japanese state, filter information through confirmation bias, and perceive the world only through the simplistic binary of “right versus left.” They seem convinced they are acting out of patriotism, yet in reality their fervor makes them susceptible to the very foreign disinformation they believe they are resisting.

The essence of capitalism lies in creating demand. In a nation like Japan, where population decline and aging inevitably shrink domestic consumption, expansion into new markets becomes essential. Africa, projected to account for one-quarter of the world’s population by mid-century, represents the most dynamic frontier in both labor and consumer potential. It is perfectly natural for development agencies in capitalist economies to engage actively with Africa.

What is ironic is that the very people who have long extolled capitalism—the conservative establishment—ended up obstructing its natural expansion by denouncing it as a “globalist plot” or a “pretext for mass immigration.” Their outrage, framed as patriotism, has become the most effective tool for sabotaging the future they claim to defend.