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

Long line outside Tobe Zoo ticket booth on the nite of October 11th at the entrance to Tobe Zoo. It was a totally different world from the one seen in daylight. The nite air was almost festive, with the rhythmic chirping of insects and laughter and conversation joining their songs.

The “Night Zoo (夜の動物園)” has become a popular autumn tradition in Ehime from the end of September to mid-October, held on Saturday evenings.

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

Everyplace I looked, the zoo was packed, and it seemed like the animals were watching this enormous assembly of people. Nevertheless, the giraffe softly leaning its long neck, the hippo emerging from the water as though passing through the shimmering reflections on the surface, and the elephant standing beneath the soft lighting all had a serene, dreamlike charm that you just don't see during 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.

The public institutions in Japan are a quiet gentleness. The zoos and museums of the prefectures may be modest, but they have a genuine desire to ignite curiosity and offer moments of learning and delight. You can feel it in the hand-written signs created by the staff, and in the soft gleam of vintage display cases, polished with care over the years. Such details that breathe the spirit of warmth and conscientiousness that is Japan itself. And all this can be enjoyed at just 600 yen ($4) for an adult at Tobe Zoo which is not just affordable. It is a cultural philosophy: that knowledge and beauty should be accessible to everyone. Public cultural places are not only places of memory-making, but places of quiet mind enrichment. I can only hope that such places continue to be loved and kept, passed 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.

The Spider Lily: Japan’s Fiery Flower of Autumn

 At this time of year, the vibrant red blossoms of the spider lily, known in Japan as higanbana (彼岸花), brighten the landscape. You often see them massed along rice paddy embankments, riverbanks, and around cemeteries—always in the same places, year after year. This is no coincidence of nature: these flowers have a long history of being deliberately planted by human hands.

Like bananas, the spider lily is a triploid plant—its chromosomes occur in three sets rather than the usual two. Because of this, normal meiosis cannot take place, and the plant produces no seeds. Instead, it reproduces by dividing its underground bulbs. As a result, every cluster of spider lilies in a given area is essentially a colony of near-identical clones.

Their frequent presence around rice fields and cemeteries is not merely aesthetic. The bulbs contain toxins that repel moles, mice, and other pests. Long ago, villagers planted them as a natural safeguard, protecting the rice harvest and, in burial grounds, preventing animals from disturbing the soil.

The name higanbana means “flower of the equinox,” as they bloom precisely around the autumn equinox. Yet across Japan, the flower is known by more than a thousand other names. One of the most famous, manjushage (曼珠沙華), comes from a Buddhist scripture in Sanskrit meaning “the red flower that blooms in heaven.” Others, such as shibitobana (死人花) “corpse flower,” reflect its association with cemeteries and death. The sheer number of these names reveals a cultural ambivalence: the flower inspires awe for its beauty, yet also unease for its ghostly associations.

My sister hates spider lilies. She thinks they’re creepy. But there is a quiet joy for me in seeing them in bloom – then I know autumn has arrived. And mostly I love what they look like. In botany they form a radiant umbel; from the end of a straight green stalk slender stems radiate in all directions, each terminated by a crimson flower. The six petals curl back dramatically and long, delicate stamens and pistils arch gracefully into the air like threads of fire. Together they circle the stalk in a crown of fire—a momentary blaze that flares for a moment each year.

Moon Viewing: Two Beloved Autumn Moons in Japanese Culture

 The night of the 十五夜 (Jugoya), known as the Harvest Moon or the Mid-Autumn Moon, falls on the 15th day of the eighth month in the old lunar calendar (October 6 in 2025). Its origins trace back to the “Mid-Autumn Festival” brought from China during the Heian period. In Japan, however, the timing coincides with the rice harvest season, so moon-viewing gradually became associated with giving thanks for the harvest and praying for abundance. Because taro is traditionally offered to the moon, this evening is also called the “Potato Moon” (芋名月). Steamed taro, moon-shaped dumplings, and pampas grass are set out as offerings—an image that continues to be cherished even today.

In contrast, the 十三夜 (Jusanya), or “Later Moon,” falls on the 13th day of the ninth lunar month (November 2 in 2025). Unlike the Jūgoya, this is a custom born in Japan, also during the Heian period, and it spread among the nobility as a companion to the Mid-Autumn celebration. The moon on this night is not perfectly full but slightly waning, and the Japanese of the time found beauty precisely in this “unfinished form.” They cherished the subtle, lingering beauty that contrasted with the perfect circle of the Harvest Moon—an appreciation that would later blossom into the aesthetics of wabi and sabi. Because chestnuts and beans are typically offered, this night is also affectionately called the “Chestnut Moon” (栗名月) or the “Bean Moon” (豆名月).

In Japan, people often say they can see a rabbit pounding rice cakes in the patterns of the moon.

Tradition holds that celebrating only one of these occasions—either the 15th night or the 13th night—was considered inauspicious, a practice called “片月見 (katatsukimi),” or one-sided moon viewing. Yet today, many people have never even heard of the Jusanya, and most are content simply to enjoy the Harvest Moon. Personally, I prefer not to worry about superstition, but simply to admire the moon’s beauty as it is.

Who Kicked the Deer in the Shadow of Neoliberalism?

 The Liberal Democratic Party will hold its leadership election on October 4 to choose Prime Minister Ishiba’s successor. Since the leader of the ruling party is normally chosen as prime minister in parliament, a new cabinet will almost certainly be formed soon after. Yet the darker shadow looming over Japanese politics today is not policy debate itself, but the rise of exclusionary rhetoric. A female candidate in the race illustrated this with her now-infamous "Nara deer" story. Citing the 万葉集(Manyosyu), she declared: "There are people who actually kick these deer, people who strike them to frighten them. If tourists from abroad come here only to harm what the Japanese people hold dear, surely something has gone too far."

However, when The Tokyo Shimbun fact-checked the matter with Nara Prefecture and relevant authorities, no evidence was found that the individual in the circulated video was foreign, nor were there any official records of deer being kicked or beaten by tourists. The recent rule changes to protect the animals were not prompted by repeated assaults, but by the need to supplement existing cultural property laws with preventive and educational measures. And in fact, the rare cases that resulted in convictions for killing or harming deer involved Japanese offenders, not foreigners. In short, this was not a matter of genuine evidence, but an instance where exclusionary sentiment was politically mobilized.

How should we understand such episodes? Wendy Brown’s In the Ruins of Neoliberalism offers a compelling lens. She argues that neoliberalism is not just an economic program—it has eroded the very language through which we speak of society. Even as inequality has widened, the conceptual ground for naming it social injustice has weakened. Everything is reframed as “individual responsibility” or “market outcome”. As the ideals of public good and equality have hollowed out, what has risen in their place are exclusive identities—tradition, family, nation—as the supposed glue of community. Into this vacuum, Brown suggests, populism and xenophobia inevitably flow.

Japan has followed a similar trajectory. Just as Thatcher in the UK and Reagan in the US advanced deregulation and privatization in the 1980s, Japan under Prime Minister Nakasone (1982–87) declared the “settlement of postwar politics” and pursued administrative reform and privatization. The era of the so-called “all middle class” disintegrated, and individuals were thrust into competition under the banner of self-responsibility. In this process, social solidarity and public welfare were steadily subordinated to market efficiency and the preservation of traditional values.

The result was that even as inequality deepened, the language to describe it as a “structural problem” fell away. Discontent, stripped of a social vocabulary, was redirected not toward markets or policies, but toward “outsiders”. In this sense, neoliberalism’s dismantling of “society” and its hollowing out of the ideals of equality and solidarity prepared the fertile ground for xenophobia. That the image of “a foreigner kicking a deer” can retain political power despite being untrue is possible only because this ground already exists.

Seen in this light, the rise of exclusionary politics in Japan is not merely the product of opportunistic politicians. It is the long-term consequence of a society reshaped by neoliberal logic since the 1980s. When liberalization and competition are promoted while the language of democracy and social justice retreats, the vacuum is filled by the emotional politics of an imagined foreign threat.

This is why merely denouncing xenophobia will never be enough. What we need is to restore a language of “society” itself—to recover ways of speaking that do not reduce inequality and discrimination to individual failings, but instead rebuild solidarity and public responsibility as the basis of living together. That challenge, more than any sound bite or scapegoat, is the task now placed before Japanese democracy.

School or Training Camp? Japan’s “Black School Rules”

 In Japanese schools, there are many so-called “black school rules”—unreasonable regulations imposed not for the sake of learning or safety, but to enforce uniformity and control.

For example, only straight black hair is officially permitted. If your natural hair isn’t pitch black or happens to be wavy, you are required to submit a “natural hair certificate” to prove that you haven’t dyed or permed it.

The rules don’t stop there. Underwear must be plain white or beige. Only one small charm is allowed on your school bag. Makeup is strictly forbidden, and even sunscreen counts as “cosmetics” and is therefore banned. Drinking water in class was once considered “disrespectful” to teachers and prohibited. And tying your hair back in a ponytail was outlawed for the bizarre reason that “boys might be aroused by seeing the nape of your neck.”

When I was in junior high school, I struggled because my natural hair was slightly lighter and loosely wavy. Several teachers would interrogate me with questions like, “Did you dye your hair?” or “Did you get a perm?” In winter my curls were manageable, but during Japan’s humid rainy season they always intensified. Even if I straightened my hair in the morning, by midday my bangs would already start curling again. I was constantly anxious, afraid that teachers might scold me at any moment.

The philosophy of my junior high school was to enforce absolute homogeneity: everyone should have the same hairstyle, wear the same clothes, and do the same things at the same time. Even the slightest deviation was punished. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. I felt so suffocated that one summer vacation I rebelled by bleaching my hair blonde and spending days hanging around in smoky arcades.

At that time, Japanese TV often aired footage of North Korea’s mass games—thousands of people performing synchronized gymnastics and dances. My classmates found those scenes surreal and a little strange, but I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. After all, weren’t we ourselves receiving a similar kind of uniform education, albeit to a lesser degree?

Fortunately, the high school I later attended—about the equivalent of a 3.7–3.9 GPA level school in the U.S.—had much looser rules. Nobody cared if my hair was a shade of dark brown. Looking back, it wasn’t my high school that was unusual, but rather my junior high that was extreme. The sense of release was exhilarating, as if the sky had suddenly opened up wide above me.

I used to love stopping by the convenience store on my way home from school.

Since the beginning of Japan’s Reiwa era (which started in 2019), school regulations have gradually been reviewed, and campaigns like “Let’s Abolish Black School Rules” have gained traction. As someone who was a student during the Heisei era, I can only feel envious. Yet even now, many of these bizarre rules remain stubbornly entrenched across Japan.

The Last Songs of Summer

Since last week, the cicadas known as Tsukutsukuboshi have begun to sing—their call is one of the season’s unmistakable markers that summer is drawing to a close. Though the heat still lingers at a sweltering 35°C (95°F), their voices remind us that the end of summer is near.

The Tsukutsukuboshi are found mainly in Honshu, Kyushu, and Shikoku, but they are rarely seen in Hokkaido or Okinawa. Their cry is unlike any other, so distinct that it’s worth listening to at least once.

 ↑ The call of the Tsukutsukuboshi

As the western sky glows crimson, giving way to deepening indigo, the sound of Higurashi cicadas rises from the thickets. True to their name—literally “sunset cicadas”—they sing most often as dusk descends. Around this same hour, it’s common to see a small flock of crows cawing as they make their way back to roost.

This, too, is part of the beauty of the Ehime countryside.

↑ The call of the Higurashi