Doors and curtains shut down. Not even a single light reaches the room, and a complete void has been created. Your surroundings are in complete darkness, and it is technically taking away your eyesight. This was my exceptional event in the “Dialog in the Dark", in which visitors explore in absolute darkness guided by visually impaired guides.

Before participating in this programme, I had this one absurd thought: disabled people were “vulnerable and weak”, and therefore it was my duty to treat them with gentle care. For me, disability was a symbol of pity, and as Stella Young, the Australian disability rights activist and a comedian, pointed out in her TED Talks, the term 'inspiration porn' – the society has objectified disabled people for the benefit of non-disabled people, packaging them as objects of pity or sources of inspiration. But standing in the lightless room, I realised that my mindset was no different; I unconsciously followed how the society classifies disabled people: fragile.

But as we entered the room, the roles between the guide and us inverted. As my classmates and I were panicking and struggling to walk or to grope for something to hold, our guide calmly gave us instructions. The guide led our group with authority, turning our panic into serenity. Though blind, the guides were moving with absolute confidence, as if they were able to see everything when we couldn’t. Especially, our guide realised one of our classmates lying down on the turf, astonishing us with the guide's spatial awareness. The guide wasn’t reckoning; he literally pointed out the student's name without any doubt when the student was not taking actions except for lying down. At that moment, I came to a realisation that I am not the one to have the rights to feel pity about them but instead feel them with great and genuine respect. They weren’t vulnerable; they were a hope to us when we were entirely helpless.

Moreover, the most interesting part I had at this place is when the dialogue happened. As we were in a complete void, we had no idea of the other people's facial expressions or appearances, consequently clearing superficial judgements based on our visual information.

What we had to do instead was to read between the lines by leaning our ears to the voice.

As the dark reliefs, from people’s judgements because we can’t see each other, our communication became more raw and honest, bridging the gap between us and binding the group through shared trust.

As we held feedback in a place where light reaches our eyes, my perspectives fundamentally shifted. It's funny how the society sorts people as “disabled” because when people who are capable in bright places can’t do anything in a pitch-black room, they aren’t called disabled. But on the contrary, blind people are categorised as “disabled people”. I feel like the society made a massive contradiction when being blind was just a mismatch with the environment.

On the other hand, authentic "disability" lies in the mindedness of the society that constructs a world built solely for non-disabled people and then labelling others as disadvantaged based on assumptions. Equity does not come when you pity somebody, but when we dismantle the society's blindness and open our eyes to look at real capability.

This essay is not here to inspire you, but I hope it serves as a wake-up call for a society that ignores its own flaws.

How much of what we say truly reaches another person? I won a quiz competition about the U.S., and as a reward, I got a ticket to Washington, D.C., I was not a fluent English speaker, so communicating with people there was not easy. This experience changed how I think about communication.

Although my English was far from perfect, I actively tried to communicate with others using body language, making eye contact, and searched for words I did not know exactly what to say. The people I spoke with listened carefully and tried to understand me. I was never completely sure how much of my English they understood. Differences in language and cultural background made perfect understanding difficult. Still, communication was possible. When I could get connected with others, my heart was fulfilled. I began to realize that the willingness to communicate could create a connection even when understanding was incomplete.

After the trip to Washington D.C., I visited my grandfather. He has been bedridden for several years, and because the hospital is far from my home, I can only visit him a few times a year. Though I can meet him, I cannot talk with him. I sit beside him and speak; the conversation is onesided. He can no longer form words. Whenever I visit, I tell him what happened to my life, particularly happy events. This time, I told him about winning the quiz competition and traveling to Washington, D.C. Yet every time I spoke to him, one question remained in my mind: How much does he understand me?

That uncertainty always made our conversations difficult and awkward. Because he could not answer, I never knew how much of what I said reached him. That uncertainty made our conversations difficult for me.

However, my experience in Washington made me reconsider what communication really means. What I learned is that communication does not depend on perfect understanding. Differences in language, culture, and experience always leave some uncertainty. It turns out that communication is about continuing to try to understand each other. We can never know whether another person understands us completely, even when we share the same language.

Thinking so, I found my grandfather might have managed to respond in his way. After speaking to him, his expression changed slightly, or his fingers moved a little like trying to shape a message. These small gestures are subtle, but I began to see them as his way of responding to me. They tell me that he is listening, and that something inside him is reaching back toward me. A nurse once told me, “He doesn’t always react when we talk to him, but he often reacts to you and looks happy when you visit.” Hearing that made me realize that our conversation is working, just the way has changed.

He might try to tell me” I’m understanding what you say.” I just did not notice that and felt a little awkward. Before these experiences, I believed that communication depended on spoken dialogue, without words, conversation would be impossible. However, my grandfather showed me that communication is not limited to speech.

Whenever it is time for me to leave, my grandfather gazes at me as I leave the room, which makes me reluctant to go out. I still do not know how much he understands me. Perhaps I never will. However, I have learned that communication does not begin when uncertainty disappears. It does not have to be overcome. It begins when, despite that uncertainty, we keep reaching each other.

Words may fail us. Perfect understanding may be impossible, but the willingness to connect can still help us reach one another beyond words.

Do we get to choose who we are? Or is it already decided by how others view you?

Today, the answer to “who we are” is heavily influenced by our labels: ethnicity, appearance, age, gender, and social status. My cousin was the first and only person to make me realize the misconceptions created by labels.

I have a cousin who is 2 years older than me, who lives in California, and who is diagnosed with ADHD and autism. We could only meet once in every 4 years or so because of the distance, but whenever we had the chance to reunite, we would always hang out together. But whenever we would play together, I always had a notion in my mind that he was a person with special needs.

When we would go to the mall together, jump on the trampoline together, or even when we had dinner together, I was overly cautious, and there were times where I acted more like a guardian, rather than a cousin. Unconsciously, I had defined who my cousin is on my own, based on my experience and perspective.

Due to his conditions, he had difficulty with verbalizing his thoughts and emotions, which would sometimes make me frustrated, not because of his autism, but because I felt ignored. Despite knowing each other for almost 16 years, I sometimes felt like he didn’t recognize my true self and care about me, because he would never look me in the eye, or show genuine affection.

As the outbreak of COVID-19 made it impossible for our family to visit the U.S., my cousin only existed in my distant childhood memory. Time passed quickly as I became busy with school.

However, things completely changed when I received a phone call from my aunt, who I haven't spoken to in several years. After sharing how our lives have been recently, my aunt suddenly mentioned how my cousin wouldn’t stop calling my name. I was completely astonished by this news. Apparently, my cousin had been repeatedly calling my name, and kept asking his mother where I had gone over the past few years.

Instantly, when I heard about this, I was so ashamed of myself, because I never realized how much my cousin had cared and loved me, before and even after we had diverged in different paths. My cousin never saw me as a "guardian". He always saw me as a great friend and an equal family member.

I immediately asked my aunt to pass the phone to my cousin, whom I haven’t talked to for years, and when I heard his voice, though it was the exact same voice I kept hearing for years in the past, I sensed love in his language. Even if his grammar was improper, I realized how he was trying his best to tell me that he misses me. In that moment, I truly connected with my cousin because I saw him as someone who is trying his best everyday to express his love despite all the difficulties, not just someone with special needs.

In contemporary society, before we even interact and create meaningful connections with people, labels stand in our way. Superficial information speaks before we do, and causes us to make judgements based on how others look and speak.

But my experience with my cousin taught me that people express themselves in various ways. Ever since, when I engage in conversations, I have started to pay attention to people’s small expressions, rather than what we see on the surface because I finally realized that love and emotions are not only expressed through literal words. They are sometimes carried through imperfect languages, gestures, and tones. True communication begins not when we speak, but when we actually start to listen to people.

And, at the end of the day, assumptions and prejudice will still exist. But the answer to “who we are” can be determined by our own selves. Labels can describe a person, but only empathy allows us to truly discover and understand one another. I hope everyone gets to know this, so that they can realize the subtle love and kindness that they are surrounded by.

Tap tap, tap...

One day, waiting for the train, a stranger suddenly tapped my shoulder repeatedly as if urgently needing my attention. I was surprised at this and to be honest, a little afraid. I turned around nervously to find it was a woman with a white cane. I realised she was either blind or partially-sighted and she was looking for someone to take her to her destination.

I got on the train arm in arm with her. Through interacting with her, I realized that she was also deaf so when we talked she used large white text on a black background on her smart phone. I could adapt to her circumstances fairly flexibly because I had gained some knowledge about visual impairment from a TV drama I had seen just a few days before. This made me aware that even something seemingly superficial, like a TV drama, can teach us lots about members of society we don’t have much contact with. It can help people to understand each other more easily in real life. Through our conversation, I discovered that we were getting off the train at the same station, Shibuya, and so I could guide her to the Hanzomon Line. After arriving at Shibuya, I took her to the washroom, too. When I saw her walking off alone, in one of the busiest stations in the world, I was so amazed that she knew the way to her destination and the location of the escalator without using brail tiles.

I was left with conflicting feelings about this valuable encounter. On the one hand, I was really happy to be relied on by someone in need and glad to help her using some of the insights I’d gained from the TV drama. However, I also felt ashamed and frustrated at myself. This is because I was afraid of her at first and finally, perhaps, I worried too much about whether she could get to her destination alone or not, though she is a capable young woman just like me. I shouldn't have presumed “You aren’t able to do this kind of thing by yourself!” when she was walking off alone. I should have trusted her abilities. Moreover, I saw her calling on someone else for help after me, and that made me think that some people really fight for their independence through communication - and in that way, she might be more independent than someone who hesitates to ask others for help.

I was struck by the power and wisdom of communication. If we are in a position to trust each other as fellow companions living on this earth, then real communication can happen, no matter what your background or your level of ability. However, for that to happen, there needs to be awareness, too. For example, we need to understand that disabled people can be independent and it is only when they need help and ask for it, that we should give them a hand. So, giving assistance to disabled people is, in this way, no different to helping people without disabilities. It’s just that people with disabilities make their reliance on others more visible. Because of stereotypical thinking, it’s easy for us to overstep the mark and overdo our help. Yet, actually, we should communicate with all equally. In this way, we avoid patronising the disabled or undermining their dignity.

I will never forget the handshake which was our last exchange. It was full of gratitude and warmth. Although certainly it’s not the case that we made eye contact, her smile was unmistakably genuine. She made me understand what real communication is. It is not simply talking about your favorite artist or sending a text message to your friends - although this is certainly fun. Instead, real communication is more about trusting, respecting and learning from each other. Through this, it enables us to connect with different worlds that we cannot experience every day.

“There is no greater treasure than peace.”

A 100-year-old survivor of the Siberian Internment told me this with deep conviction. I still cannot forget the warmth of his hand as he gently placed it on my shoulder.

Since last spring, I have been conducting a research project focused on “the Siberian Internment.” My interest began with the discovery that my great-grandfather was detained in Siberia.

He was in Manchuria when the war ended on August 15, 1945. There, many people, including him, were detained by Soviet forces advancing into Manchuria. Believing in the word “damoi” (Russian for “return home”), they boarded Soviet military freight trains. However, that turned out to be a lie. The trains did not head for a port bound for Japan, but instead for forced-labor camps. Approximately 600,000 people were deported to various regions of the Soviet Union and Mongolia, and roughly 60,000 lost their lives. It was the event commonly referred to as “the Siberian Internment.” August 1945, which marked the end of the war for many people, was not the end for those detained in Siberia, but rather the beginning of a new kind of battle for survival.

Those detained the longest were forced to remain in detention for as long as 11 years. The detainees had to work in the harsh cold, suffering from hunger. In these brutal conditions, many of them lost their strength and their lives. At the beginning of their detention, they shared the same hope of returning to Japan and helped each other. However, while being mistreated by Soviet forces, they also suffered from betrayal by their fellow Japanese. As a result, they gradually found it difficult to trust others and began to think only of themselves. Many survivors who returned to Japan have left their testimonies. These testimonies describe their deep sadness and resentment over having their precious youth taken away. I was speechless when I read their testimonies. Through them, I learned how deeply harsh living conditions can hurt people’s spirits when human lives are treated as unimportant and people are forced to distance themselves from others.

However, even in such harsh conditions in the camps, I was deeply moved by the testimonies of detainees who experienced being respected as human beings and warm human connections.

“Your father and mother are in Japan, right? You must not die in a place like this.”1

Some local people comforted and encouraged the detainees with kind words, even shedding tears with them. They also gave them food and drinks.

“I lost my family in the war. Your family must be waiting for you in Japan. So, I’m so glad that you can return to Japan alive.”2

At that time, there were many people in the Soviet Union who had lost their families in the war and did not even have enough food for themselves. Even so, there were people who treated the detainees as human beings and cared for them and their families in Japan as if they were their own families. Meeting such people gave the detainees hope to survive.

Although the survivors who shared such heartfelt connections across national borders had different experiences, many expressed gratitude, writing that these encounters helped them survive. Many also wrote of their hopes for peace.

I am currently writing a research paper for my graduation project on “Heart-to-Heart Connections in the Testimonies of Survivors of the Siberian Internment.” Some people maintained their humanity and experienced warm human interactions even in harsh conditions. I want to share their words with many people who have not experienced war themselves.

Japan is not at war today, and I feel fortunate to live in such a country. But can we really say that our society is peaceful simply because we are not fighting with weapons? Through this research, I have come to believe that peace means building a society where people respect each other.

Now, thanks to this project, I am connecting with people across generations and national borders who commemorate the victims and seek to pass on the experiences of detainees. We share a strong hope for peace and are encouraged to see these deep and warm heart-to-heart connections continue to grow and spread.

1 Association for Recording the Experiences of Japanese Prisoners of War in the Soviet Union (2009), “64 Years After the War: Voices of Detainees in Siberia and Mongolia,” Aurora, nos. 42-43 (combined issue), pp. 73, 85.

2 Public Foundation for Peace and Consolation (1991), “Foundations of Peace,” vol. 1, pp. 200-201.

I am a Korean living in Japan, and I go to a Korean school. My parents and sisters went to the same school, too. At Korean school, we always speak Korean and spend time with Korean friends and teachers. We receive lessons like students at other schools, and we also study the Korean language, history, and culture. I am also a member of a Korean dance club. I really like my Korean school.

Korean schools are classified as international schools, but most people do not know much about them. Moreover, some people do not like our school simply because we are Korean. There is hate speech written about us, and there are voices that insult our school. Because of this, I am always scared. Therefore, I sometimes hide the fact that I am Korean.

When I was a child, I often met an elderly Japanese woman from my neighborhood on my way to a park near my house. Every time I met her, I said, “Konnichiwa.”

One day, when I went to the park with my sisters, she asked us, “Which school do you go to?”

My sister told her, “We go to a Korean school, so we can speak Korean.”

Then she smiled in surprise and said, “Really? I like Korean. Can you tell me how to say ‘Hello’ in Korean?”

We told her that “Hello” in Korean was “Annyeonghaseyo.”

After that day, we greeted her with “Annyeonghaseyo” whenever we met her, and she greeted us in the same way.

As I entered elementary school and grew older, I became more aware of myself as a Korean. There were only five students in my class, but my school life was really interesting. However, I sometimes felt a little anxious because I knew that there were people who criticized our school.

In fact, while walking home from school, one of my friends was told by Japanese people, “Go back to Korea” and “Don’t speak Korean.” After hearing about this, I was scared whenever I went home.

Hearing those words made me wonder whether speaking Korean outside school was dangerous. Little by little, fear taught me to hide a part of myself.

One day, I met the elderly woman near my home. At that moment, I said, “Konnichiwa.” I did not greet her in Korean.

However, she did not return my greeting. Instead, she asked me, “Why did you say Konnichiwa? I always look forward to hearing you say Annyeonghaseyo.”

I was surprised.

“Why didn’t I speak Korean? Why?” I asked myself again and again.

Looking back now, I think I was anxious that she might someday hate me because I was Korean. However, when I heard what she said, I felt happy. At that time, I had hidden my true self as a Korean.

But I realized that I did not have to hide my true self.

Some people may not like Koreans or Korean schools. However, they are part of my identity, now and forever.

The fifteen years I have spent at Korean school have helped me understand and take pride in who I am.

If I hide these things, I cannot be my true self. I want to live as my true self, and everyone wants to do the same.

There are many people in the world who still hide themselves because they are afraid of being hated by others. I think they need to be understood by many people.

Actually, I wanted people to understand that I am Korean and that I go to a Korean school. I still want them to understand that today.

Having someone like her who understood me encouraged me and helped me feel proud of myself.

I believe that those who hide themselves feel the same way.

The door of the heart, which is closed to hide one’s true self, can be opened through mutual understanding.

The world is filled with love and hate.

If we understand one another, we can reduce hate and increase love.

Understanding creates positive connections.

It is our key.

I used to be afraid of silence. Whenever a conversation became quiet, I immediately felt that something was wrong. This was the problem I faced when I started volunteering as a Japanese language tutor for foreigners living in Japan. I believed that my job was to make a supportive environment by keep talking. I asked plenty of friendly questions such as food, family, culture and more. Thankfully, the students kept answering my questions, so I thought I was doing pretty well. However, I eventually learned that true communication is not about filling silence, but about giving the other person enough time.

One normal Thursday, I was in charge of a man in his 60s. Everything went pretty well until that moment. During a ten-minute break, he asked me how old I was. This was a common question for me to be asked, so I just answered, “I’m 17.” Since there are many volunteers in their 50s and 60s, many students want to know my age. Every time people asked me this question, they gave me positive comments like “Wow, you are so cool!”. I expected the words like this from him as well, but instead, he teased my age. He had been answering my questions, and we kept talking. “What did I do wrong?” I kept asking myself these questions again and again, while my student stared at the other group jealously.

It took me a month to figure out my mistake. Our volunteer group had a meeting soon after that day, so I decided to talk about my worry to one of my mentors, who knew my style of teaching. She suggested me to stop asking too many questions. To be honest, I’ve been convincing myself avoiding silence is a key to keep a cozy atmosphere. I couldn’t understand why I needed to decrease the questions then. Even so, I decided to listen to her advice. I no longer asked too many questions. At the beginning, I was scared that we might end up in silence. However, I was totally wrong. They started to ask me questions! They were not fluent, but they were trying. They were being creative! That was the time when I began to understand my mistake.

Some people say that communication is like “playing catch”. I had known about it since I was a little. However, I was mistaken. The thing I used to do was “throwing a ball” and not “playing catch”. Since the students answered my questions, I assumed that they would throw a ball back to me. Sadly, I was wrong. I threw a ball, and they caught it. But instead of letting them throw a ball back to me, I threw another ball. I didn’t give them a chance to throw it back. That’s why I barely received questions from them.

By giving them time, the situation changed dramatically. I stopped asking a lot of questions. I still ask some questions, but I’m trying to get a question from them. I realized that I didn’t need to hurry. They can spend some time to think what they want to say in Japanese. I realized that this process is the most important part of communication. You need to give them some time to throw a ball back to you, just like you do in P.E. class. When your friend is not ready to throw it back, you need to wait. That is exactly the same with communication.

This process is important for everyone you talk to. It doesn’t matter if that person is a beginner at the language or not. Communication would never happen without another person, just like you can’t play catch alone! Don’t throw too many balls. Just wait. It may take some time, but they will throw it back to you. And when they do, that is true communication.

“Which looks cuter, the pink top or the black lace dress?” Happy asked. The pink top was short enough to show her belly, and the black dress made her legs look long. Both outfits looked very cute, so I replied simply. “Both suit you well. I think either is fine.” “Right, thanks,” Happy muttered, looking a little grumpy. She returned to her room. She was angry. Happy was angry. What did she want? What did I do? Why was this 12-year-old girl angry?

Happy is an international student from China. We met a few hours ago and were staying with the same host family. My image of Chinese people often involves a perception of bad attitudes, a reluctance to apologize, and a tendency to put themselves first. She kind of matched the stereotype.

A few days later I was having dinner with Happy and my host sister. My host sister was making plans. “Where should we go this Sunday? Let's all go out together!” I quickly replied, “I'm fine with anywhere!” My host sister looked surprised and she scoffed at me, exasperated. “Haruka, don't you have your own opinion?” “I want to go to the shopping mall to buy some new clothes!” Happy said. I immediately copied her and said I wanted to go to the mall, too. When Happy asked what I usually like to do, I replied, “I love watching movies.” She said, “Let's go to the movie theater instead of the mall, then!” We decided to see a movie on Sunday. I was really surprised. Did she realize that I am not good at expressing my own opinions? Her kindness made me want to get to know her better.

Two weeks after arriving in Australia, the stress of the unfamiliar environment – the different culture, the different language, the different spaghetti - had affected me and I ended up with a sore throat. The medicine I brought from Japan was only for fever and stomach pain, so I had nothing for my sore throat. It was Saturday and there was no school, so I stayed in my room all day, feeling incredibly lonely.

“Knock, knock.” “Who’s there?” Happy opened the door and handed me a cup of warm water. “Drink this. It will warm you up and help your sore throat.” I gratefully accepted it. Feeling her kindness, I realized she was a truly caring person. Normally, people avoid someone who keeps coughing to avoid catching a cold, but she truly understood how others feel. The warmth of the water felt exactly like the warmth of her heart. “Why are you so kind to me?” I asked. “I'm just worried about you, Haruka. You never say your opinion and always hold back. I was worried you were forcing yourself.”

I was deeply moved by her sincere words. I was honest and confessed. I always fear being rejected if my opinion differs from others. She smiled encouragingly. “Having a different opinion is a cool thing! It's natural to be different, and that's how we make new discoveries together. Have more confidence! In my country, if you don't voice your opinion, people think you aren't listening to the conversation,” she explained.

Her words, bravely crossing the language barrier, resonated deeply in my heart and gave me courage. I thanked her, saying her words gave me real confidence. Happy smiled, looking relieved. I realized that she hadn't gotten angry before, and she wasn’t selfish. Maybe instead she had simply thought I wasn't listening to her seriously.

When I drink warm water, I remember Happy. Communication is like a cup of water. It seems ordinary, but it is indispensable to live. Similarly, expressing your opinion is essential to build trust and understand each other. Of course, I know that not all Chinese people are selfish, but making a connection to Happy-chan took more than just seeing through stereotypes. You can't simply rely on the image of others portrayed in the media or online, you really have to talk to them in person to understand what they are truly like. Now, when friends ask where I want to go, I confidently say, “I want to go shopping!

“If the main purpose of communication is to convey ideas to each other, what is communication like for deaf people who don’t know sign language?” This was an incomprehensible question for me when I was a child. But my mother answered it easily.

I lived in China until I was 13 years old. Because of the large population, there weren’t many detached in China like there are in Japan. Most people lived in tall apartment buildings, and the buildings were very close together. That is why I could see many kinds of people in my residential community every day.

There was an elderly woman and her dog living in this residential community, too. She looked about 60 or 70 years old and made a living by collecting bottles and cardboard boxes from the community trash bin. She was deaf and couldn't speak like most people. She could only pronounce “Ah” when she talked. Surprisingly, she liked to have conversations with other people. This was difficult for me to understand. Why did she enjoy talking with others even though she couldn’t speak? What is the point of a conversation if people cannot understand each other? I couldn’t understand it.

One day, when I finished school and was walking home with my mother, we met that elderly woman. She was still pushing an old cart with some bottles and old clothes in it. When she saw us, her worn face that always had no expression suddenly became very happy, and she walked toward us. This really scared me as a primary school student, because I had never talked with her before, and she was the first person who made me realize there were deaf people in the world. I turned my head and looked at my mother. She looked very happy and waved at the elderly woman, as if she had just met a good friend. After that, they started talking.

During the conversation, I was so surprised to find that no matter how short or how low the elderly woman’s voice was, my mother could always understand and respond to her, saying things like, “Yes, it looks like it’s going to rain today,” or “Yes, I just picked up my child and I’m on my way home.” Although the elderly woman couldn’t hear, her actions were so vivid that she seemed as if she could hear everything. When they finished the conversation, I forgot to go home and took my mother’s hand, eagerly ran to the side. “She makes the same sound every time, but you can understand her! It’s unbelievable!” I was so excited that my heart almost jumped out of my body. My mother laughed and said, “I didn’t actually understand her. Rather, she knew that I couldn’t understand her, and she couldn’t understand me either.” I was stunned and asked, "So what is the meaning of your conversation?” My mother tapped my forehead and asked me back, “Is the purpose of conversation just to have a conversation?” My brain felt like it had been electrocuted, I understood it all! Maybe a conversation without mutual understanding is meaningless to some people, but is it necessary for everyone to understand everything that is said in a conversation? The answer is no. Conversation has different meanings for different people.

For the elderly deaf woman, rather than understanding others or being understood by them, what she needed most was companionship, to be treated like everyone else, and to temporarily forget her physical disability. She might not even have known what she was saying, but this conversation was still meaningful to her. It brought her joy and healed her heart. What she enjoyed was the process of communicating itself.

Communication takes many forms, such as spoken language, body language, and written words. However, each of them is usually thought to exist for the purpose of conveying a specific message. This also leads many people to believe that communication exists only to transmit meaning. But in fact, communication that is not meant to convey any specific message also exists. The purpose of communication is not only to convey ideas. Even conversations without meaningful content can comfort and heal the human heart.

Everyone makes choices every day: what they wear, what they listen to, and what they eat. But do they choose what they call themselves?

I've had a habit of calling myself "boku" since I was young. I don't know why I started it, but it's a symbol for me to express myself and to be like "me". Before, I was often seen as a stranger, but I didn't want to stop saying "boku". Even though I was hurt because of it, I was just using the most self-like first-person pronoun.

When I was in elementary school, one classmate asked me, "Why do you say 'boku'? You are a girl, aren't you?" I could say nothing. Also, I practiced "watashi" when I gave a speech in public because I was a leader of the school. I felt like I wasn't myself. One day, I heard a boy whisper, "Maybe she likes girls." His voice sounded like he was laughing. That night, I cried in my bed. I realized I shouldn't have said "boku", but I couldn't stop. If I did, I felt I might not be myself anymore. Why do they criticize me? Why am I a girl? I hated my body as it grew into a girl. I kept thinking then, "they speak ill of me because I'm a girl. If I were a boy, I would accept calling myself 'boku'…."

But wait, English speakers just say "I". This was my first encounter with a different way of seeing gender through language. Have you ever wondered how to say "watashi" or "boku" in English? The answer is just "I". English has no gender in first-person pronouns. Contrary to that, Japan has various ways to call yourself, which differ according to gender. At first, I was dissatisfied with the way Japanese first-person pronouns were used. But through these experiences, I realized it was just wrong.

When I entered junior high school, I met a girl who called herself "ore". I was surprised and thought that she was the same as me. She was a serene girl but didn't seem to care about what others thought. I was encouraged by her behaviors. Also, my friends in high school even use "oira" jokingly, a first-person pronoun which was used in old Japan. We laugh when we use it. Is it blamed by anyone? No, it isn't. I had lived in a world which didn't accept me and treated me as a stranger before. But now I live in a new world where my friends can use "oira" when they talk jokingly, and a girl can use "boku" without any stress. Japanese speakers can call themselves their favorite first-person pronouns and choose the pronoun that fits how they feel at the time. It is the same as the way everyone can wear various clothes which they like. Sometimes, I think it is fashionable! How beautiful it is to live in my identity by using my favorite first-person pronoun!

I think English is one of the cultures closest to us. Learning English is not only an education in Japan, but also an opportunity which gives us new ideas. When I realized English has no gender in first-person pronouns, I thought that if I were an American girl, I wouldn't feel that pain. But now, I'm glad that I'm a Japanese girl! Thanks to English, I realized Japan has different first-person pronouns, and they are used by many people regardless of gender. And now, I can say "boku" proudly.

Encountering another culture gave me a new perspective through which I could see my own culture.

It was five years ago when I started failing in class and losing passion for the future that other kids aspire to. I started being mean to my family, saying hurtful things that I didn’t mean. When I first started school my little sister was born and my brothers were taking the national exam so my parents were busy with their kids and work. During this time I always felt like I came second to my siblings when it came to my parents. My brothers were smart and my little sister started talking earlier than other kids her age. I began to believe I was the black sheep in my family.

When I was in seventh grade my family decided to move to Australia. My cousins lived there, and my brothers had already gone to Germany for college. We arrived with only one suitcase per person and moved into an apartment. I had no school or friends there. While my friends back home were moving forward with their lives, I felt like time had stopped for me. Around six months later we moved back to Mongolia, but by then everyone had already progressed far ahead while I had been out of school. I lost hope when I didn’t understand and couldn’t catch up so I just stopped trying. I began to resent my parents for taking me out of school and moving to another country, just to return again. I stopped talking with my parents and avoided them. My grades got so bad that teachers started writing emails to my parents.

At that time my parents couldn’t understand why I was acting the way I was. They had grown up in a communist county, while I was growing up in a changed capitalist Mongolia where people have freedom of speech. They had fewer opportunities and weren’t able express their wants. My brothers also weren’t able to understand. From their perspective I was ungrateful because our parents worked hard to pay my tuition. By the time I started school my family’s financial situation had gotten significantly better, making them able to send me to private schools, opportunities my brothers didn't have. Everyone saw the situation from their perspective, making it hard to understand each other. There was no communication.

My parents couldn’t bear to see me be like that anymore and decided to talk with me. I don’t remember everything from that day, or what I said in anger. I do remember how stuffy my nose got and how hot my tears were. My mother held me while she told me how much she loved me. She told me when I was born she loved me so much that she didn’t let my father hold me because she wanted to keep holding me herself. After that we went to a cafe and talked and laughed, forgetting how much I had just cried. It felt like the years I spent not communicating was just a few days. From that day I started trying in school and passed all my classes. At the end of the year I graduated.

That experience made me see my family and importance of communication differently. Before, I saw my family as people with fixed roles. Father, mother, brother, sister. I forgot how each one of them had their own lives outside of our home. Outside, my father and mother are colleagues at their workplace, they are someone’s son and daughter, brother and sister and my brothers are classmates at their school, a friend to their peers, a student to their teachers. Even my little sister had her own life outside of our home. I had set these people in roles that couldn’t be changed. But family can also be friends, teachers and students that give you the most important lessons and opinions. If I hadn’t talked with my family that day I wouldn’t be here in Japan now. My dreams would not have been shared, as I thought they were just my parents and wouldn’t understand. I realized that communication isn’t just expressing yourself; it's putting yourself in others' shoes and understanding from their perspective.