Masaki N Kansai

Kyoto’s Three Great Festival Parades: A Living Museum Without Walls

Through three great festival parades, Kyoto residents breathe life into the past, transforming the streets into a living museum of the city’s history and traditions.

Princesses carried in palanquins, elegant ladies-in-waiting accompanied by children in ceremonial costumes, men sporting happi coats and hachimaki headbands as they pull enormous festival floats, and samurai warriors on horseback are just some of the figures from Japan’s past who return to the streets of Kyoto during the parades held annually to celebrate the city’s three great festivals.

From the regal pageantry of the Heian period in Aoi Matsuri (spring) to the kon-chiki-chin rhythm of Gion Matsuri (summer) and the kaleidoscope of historical eras spanning more than a millennium in Jidai Matsuri (autumn), Kyoto residents, young and old, don period costumes and take to the streets to transform the city, capturing the imagination of visitors from Japan and around the world.

The lead float of Kyoto's Gion Matsuri procession advances along a city street, accompanied by participants in traditional white festival clothing. — Enormous festival floats are pulled through Kyoto’s narrow streets by teams of volunteers, whose strength and coordination keep these massive structures moving along the procession route.

Each procession animates a different chapter of Kyoto’s history, enabling residents to share their traditions with visitors while conveying a sense of heritage, community, and civic pride to future generations. More than simple historical reenactments for the tourist trade, these processions instill in Kyoto’s young people a sense of pride in a heritage that will one day be theirs to preserve and pass on.

Together, these festival parades offer a visual portrait of a city whose people have endured wars, epidemics, earthquakes, and famines while preserving their identity and traditions for more than a thousand years. They provide visitors with a unique insight into the spirit of Japan’s ancient capital and the customs, values, and institutions that helped shape the nation.

Aoi Matsuri: The Elegance of the Heian Court

The first chapter of that story begins each year on May 15 with the Aoi Matsuri, Kyoto’s oldest major festival, whose origins stretch back more than 1,400 years. According to tradition, the festival began during the reign of Emperor Kinmei in the sixth century, when severe storms, repeated crop failures, and epidemics prompted the emperor to seek an explanation through divination.

Two young girls in vermilion ceremonial robes pose for a photograph during Aoi Matsuri at Kyoto's Imperial Palace. — Two young participants share a playful moment as they have their photos taken while waiting for the Aoi Matsuri procession to move forward at the Kyoto Imperial Palace.

The disasters were attributed to the displeasure of the Kamo deities, prompting the dispatch of an imperial envoy to perform rites to appease them. In 819, the festival became a state-sponsored ceremony conducted according to the court’s formal ritual system, with an imperial envoy presenting offerings and prayers on the emperor’s behalf.

Participants wear sprigs of aoi (wild ginger), traditionally associated with protection from misfortune. The leaves also adorn costumes, carriages, and other ceremonial objects in the procession. Today, more than 500 participants in Heian-period costume reenact the journey from the Kyoto Imperial Palace to Shimogamo and Kamigamo Shrines, bringing the traditions of the ancient court to life.

Aoi Matsuri participants dressed in colorful Heian-period court robes walk beneath flower-adorned parasols as spectators watch along a shopping street in Kyoto. — Aoi Matsuri participants dressed as Heian-period noblewomen receive an enthusiastic welcome from the neighborhood around Demachiyanagi Shōtengai in Kyoto.

The Aoi Matsuri season also includes a number of traditional rituals and equestrian events at the two Kamo Shrines, including yabusame, or horseback archery, at Shimogamo Shrine and the Kamo Kurabeuma horse races at Kamigamo Shrine.

Despite being one of Kyoto’s three great festivals, Aoi Matsuri is perhaps the most underappreciated by foreign visitors. Lacking the huge yamaboko floats of the Gion Matsuri or the broad historical panorama of the Jidai Matsuri, it feels more like an intimate garden party, where Kyoto residents bring the gaiety of the Heian court into modern Kyoto.

The Saiō-dai's attendants in traditional blue-and-white court robes walk toward Shimogamo Shrine during Kyoto's Aoi Matsuri procession. — Attendants accompanying the Saiō-dai walk toward Shimogamo Shrine in elaborate court attire as spectators gather to watch the Aoi Matsuri procession.

This was an era often regarded as Japan’s cultural golden age, a world of poetry, romance, lavish clothing, and seasonal elegance that is sometimes overshadowed by the era of samurai warriors and the influence of Zen Buddhism.

Stories of jealous spirits, courtly rivalries, and the supernatural were recurring themes in Heian literature, making Aoi Matsuri a fitting backdrop for works such as The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu. Yet Aoi Matsuri is not the only Kyoto festival born from fears of vengeful spirits.

For those interested in Aoi Matsuri, see my article entitled Aoi Matsuri: When the Hina Dolls Come Alive.

Gion Matsuri: Tradition and Community

The next chapter in our story opens with the Gion Matsuri, which traces its origins to efforts to appease supernatural forces believed to be responsible for deadly epidemics. Centered on Yasaka Shrine, historically known as Gion Shrine, the festival began in 869 when prayers were offered to end a devastating plague that had spread throughout the capital.

A large, ornately decorated Gion Matsuri float moves through central Kyoto, pulled by participants wearing blue-and-white festival jackets and traditional straw hats. — Participants in blue-and-white festival attire pull an elaborately decorated float through central Kyoto during the Gion Matsuri procession.

Over the centuries, however, the festival developed a distinctly different character from Aoi Matsuri. Rather than remaining closely associated with the aristocratic world of the Imperial Court, Gion Matsuri became a festival supported and organized by Kyoto’s merchant and artisan communities, known as the machishū, and by local neighborhoods.

Gion Matsuri is a month-long event that begins on July 1 with a series of ceremonies and celebrations. Its best-known events are the Yamaboko Junkō float processions on July 17 and July 24, which form the highlights of the festival. The chigo, a young boy chosen to ceremonially represent the deities, rides atop the Naginata-hoko, the lead float in the July 17 procession.

Naginata Hoko, the Gion Matsuri float carrying the sacred chigo, displays ornate golden carvings, embroidered panels, and red curtains as participants ride aboard. — Naginata Hoko, the lead float of Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri procession, carries the chigo, a young boy who ceremonially represents the deities.

Reaching as high as a four-story building and weighing several tons, these elaborate structures are constructed without the use of nails and decorated with fine textiles, tapestries, and carvings collected over centuries from Japan and abroad. Pulled through the streets by teams of local residents along the traditional route, these floats represent the pride, craftsmanship, and community spirit of the Kyoto neighborhoods that have preserved them for generations.

Gion Matsuri volunteers in blue happi coats rest near participants dressed in white as they help pull a festival float through Kyoto. — Volunteers take a brief rest in the July heat during Gion Matsuri, while fellow participants in white prepare to pull the massive festival float through Kyoto’s streets.

For those interested in Gion Matsuri, see my article entitled Gion Matsuri: Bridging Tradition and Modernity.

Jidai Matsuri: A Journey Through History

Unlike the Aoi Matsuri and Gion Matsuri, which originated as religious ceremonies, Jidai Matsuri was created to commemorate Kyoto’s long history as Japan’s imperial capital. Beginning with the establishment of Heian-kyō in 794 and continuing through the age of the samurai to the Meiji Restoration, the procession features historical figures dressed in period attire. These include men and women who played significant roles in Kyoto’s history, bringing the city’s past to life in a vivid parade through its streets.

Members of the Ishin Kinnō-tai in black jackets and purple hakama march in the Jidai Matsuri procession carrying historical rifles. — Members of the Ishin Kinnō-tai portray the Yamaguni-tai, a volunteer force that joined the imperial army during the Boshin War against the shogunate.

Centered on Heian Shrine, built in 1895 to commemorate the 1,100th anniversary of the establishment of Heian-kyō as the capital in 794, the festival celebrates the people and events that shaped Kyoto during more than a thousand years of imperial history. Heian Shrine is more than a partial recreation of the State Halls compound of the ancient Heian Palace. It represents Kyoto looking backward in order to define itself in the modern era.

Kyoto civic dignitaries in traditional court robes ride in a horse-drawn carriage during the Jidai Matsuri procession. — Kyoto’s civic dignitaries take part in the Jidai Matsuri procession in horse-drawn carriages, representing the city’s modern institutions alongside its historical past.

Beginning with the Meiji Restoration and reaching back to the early Heian period, when Heian-kyō was established as the capital in 794, the procession moves backward through history as it travels from the Kyoto Imperial Palace to Heian Shrine.

Tomoe Gozen, the legendary female warrior, rides a white horse in armor while carrying a long sword during Kyoto's Jidai Matsuri procession. — Tomoe Gozen, the renowned female warrior who fought alongside Minamoto no Yoshinaka, appears on horseback in armor during Kyoto’s Jidai Matsuri procession.

The procession opens with figures from the turbulent years of the Meiji Restoration that brought an end to the Tokugawa shogunate.

Among them are Sakamoto Ryōma and Nakaoka Shintarō, whose efforts helped pave the way for the Meiji Restoration, as well as members of the Shinsengumi, a special police force formed to protect the shogunate in Kyoto, recognizable by their distinctive blue uniforms. Their presence serves as a reminder that many of the political intrigues, assassinations, and street clashes that transformed Japan into a modern nation unfolded in and around Kyoto itself.

A samurai in ornate armor rides a black horse during Kyoto's Jidai Matsuri procession, accompanied by a participant in traditional military attire. — A samurai in elaborate armor rides through Kyoto’s Jidai Matsuri procession, bringing the city’s warrior history to life.

Yet the Jidai Matsuri is not only a parade of historic figures and events. As the procession moves backward through the centuries, visitors witness the changing fashions and daily lives of the people who once inhabited the ancient capital. Samurai warriors appear in armor and hunting attire, court nobles and ladies-in-waiting glide past in elaborate garments, while the peddling women of Ōhara, who traditionally carried bundles of firewood or charcoal on their heads, evoke the toil of the working women who once traveled into Kyoto’s markets to sell their goods.

Women portraying Oharame carry bundles of brushwood on their heads during Kyoto’s Jidai Matsuri procession. — Women portraying the Oharame of Ohara carry bundles of brushwood on their heads, recreating the traditional journey of women who traveled to Kyoto to sell firewood and other goods.

For those interested in Heian Shrine, see my article entitled Heian Shrine: Remembering the Legacy of the Imperial Capital.

Keeping Kyoto’s Heritage Alive

Perhaps it is because the traditions of these three great parades have been passed down through generations that the participants seem to stand a little straighter, their expressions revealing a sense of pride that lends another dimension to the processions.

The volunteer participants transform the city’s streets into a living tapestry spanning more than a thousand years of history, giving visitors an insight into the lives of the people who lived in Kyoto’s traditional machiya townhouses, worshipped in its sacred places, and shaped the communities that created the Kyoto we see today.

They are also instrumental in making Kyoto a museum without walls, where history is preserved not behind glass but in the streets, and where the stories of the past are periodically brought to life by the people who inherited those traditions. In doing so, they help ensure that Kyoto’s centuries-old cultural inheritance remains a living part of the city’s future rather than merely a remnant of its past.

Aoi Matsuri: When the Hina Dolls Come Alive

Step into Kyoto’s imperial past, where the Hina dolls come alive in a procession of elegance, tradition, and literary intrigue.

Every year on March 3, Japanese families celebrate Hina Matsuri, displaying ornate dolls inhabiting the elegant world of the Heian-period imperial court. Dressed in colorful, intricately crafted silk robes, the emperor, empress, court ladies, musicians, and attendants preserve a vision of courtly life that flourished more than a thousand years ago.

On May 15, that world comes to life on the streets of Kyoto during Aoi Matsuri.

Participants in traditional blue and white robes accompany a lacquered ox-cart decorated with cascading purple wisteria during Kyoto's Aoi Matsuri procession. — A lacquered ox-cart adorned with purple wisteria recalls the ceremonial transport and courtly hierarchy of the Heian-period imperial court.

According to tradition, Aoi Matsuri traces its origins to the reign of Emperor Kinmei in the sixth century, more than two centuries before Kyoto became the capital of Japan. Following a series of storms and crop failures, the emperor is said to have ordered divination to determine their cause. The disasters were attributed to the displeasure of the Kamo deities, prompting the emperor to dispatch an imperial messenger to perform rites seeking their favor and praying for protection and a bountiful harvest.

Originally known as Kamo Matsuri, the festival came to be called Aoi Matsuri after its revival in 1694, when futaba aoi leaves were used to decorate ceremonial objects, clothing, ox-drawn carriages, and horses.

Ox‑drawn Heian‑style palanquin decorated with cascading wisteria, accompanied by attendants in traditional robes during Kyoto’s Aoi Matsuri procession. — The Furyō-guruma, an ox‑drawn palanquin adorned with wisteria, moves through Kyoto as part of the Imperial Messenger’s procession in the Aoi Matsuri.

More than 500 Kyoto residents, ranging from young children to the elderly, dress in period costumes and reenact traditions passed down through generations, preserving a unique part of Japan’s cultural heritage in an elegant procession of nobles, attendants, ox-drawn carts, and horses adorned with futaba aoi, the wild ginger whose leaves are associated with the festival’s present-day name.

Aoi Matsuri participants wearing traditional robes and black court caps adorned with green futaba-aoi leaves, as seen on this noblewoman accompanied by attendants, one carrying a red parasol. — Sprigs of futaba-aoi (double-leaf wild ginger) adorn the participants of Aoi Matsuri, symbolizing the festival’s enduring connection to the Kamo Shrines.

The leaves of futaba-aoi, a wild ginger native to Japan, have traditionally been associated with protection from misfortune. Their use in the festival reflects its origins in prayers for relief from calamities and for the well-being of the people.

The procession travels from the Imperial Palace to the Kamo Shrines. Long before Kyoto became Japan’s capital in 794, the Kamo Shrines occupied an important place in the spiritual life of the region. Today they are known as Shimogamo Shrine and Kamigamo Shrine.

A frontal view of the vermilion entrance gate and traditional architecture of Shimogamo Shrine (Kamo-mioya Shrine) in Kyoto. Copy alt text

Vermilion shrine gate and arched bridge surrounded by trees and gardens at Kamigamo Shrine in Kyoto.

Shimogamo Shrine (left) and Kamigamo Shrine, the two ancient Kamo shrines that welcome the Aoi Matsuri procession and preserve Kyoto’s spiritual heritage.

Shimogamo Shrine, formally known as Kamo-mioya Shrine, stands within Tadasu no Mori, a woodland whose ancient trees provide a striking contrast to the surrounding city. It enshrines Kamo Taketsunumi no Mikoto and his daughter, Tamayorihime no Mikoto. Farther north, Kamigamo Shrine, or Kamo-wakeikazuchi Shrine, is dedicated to Kamo Wakeikazuchi no Kami, a deity associated with thunder. Together, the two shrines have long been revered as guardians of Kyoto and its people.

When the Aoi Matsuri procession reaches each shrine, the festive mood gives way to solemn religious observances. An imperial messenger presents offerings on behalf of the emperor and delivers a formal message to the enshrined deity. Prayers are offered, accompanied by traditional music and dance. These ceremonies reflect the enduring relationship between the imperial court and the Kamo deities.

A woman in traditional court attire rides a horse decorated with greenery during Kyoto's Aoi Matsuri procession. — A participant in traditional court attire rides through the Aoi Matsuri procession, evoking the elegance of the Heian-period imperial court.

The days leading up to the festival include their own distinctive ceremonies. On May 3, Shimogamo Shrine hosts yabusame, in which archers dressed in traditional hunting attire shoot arrows at targets from galloping horses. Two days later, Kamigamo Shrine holds Kamo Kurabeuma, a traditional horse-racing ritual in which riders race along a track to honor the shrine’s deity and pray for peace and abundant harvests.

A mounted archer in traditional Japanese attire draws a bow while riding a galloping horse during a horseback archery demonstration. — The skill and precision required for yabusame, traditional Japanese horseback archery, are demonstrated at events such as the May 3 ceremony at Shimogamo Shrine during the Aoi Matsuri season.

The most prominent figure associated with Aoi Matsuri during the Heian period was the Saiō, an unmarried imperial princess appointed to serve the Kamo deities. Following a period of ritual purification, she took part in ceremonies at the shrines, representing the imperial court and reinforcing the close relationship between the Kamo deities and the rulers of Japan. Today, the tradition is symbolically represented by the Saiō-dai, a woman selected from Kyoto who appears in an elaborate twelve-layered jūnihitoe and is among the most anticipated figures in the procession.

Serving as Saiō-dai is a coveted honor, and the women selected for the role often combine elegance with impressive professional and academic accomplishments.

The Saiō-dai in an elaborate court robe rides in a palanquin during the Aoi Matsuri procession at the Kyoto Imperial Palace, accompanied by participants in colorful Heian-style costumes. — Haruna Matsui, serving as the Saiō-dai, rides in a ceremonial palanquin during the Aoi Matsuri procession at the Kyoto Imperial Palace.

The 2023 Saiō-dai, Haruna Matsui, was a graduate of the University of London, earning academic distinction in finance before completing graduate studies at Keio University. At the time of her selection, she worked for a foreign investment firm supporting venture businesses while also being skilled in traditional Japanese dance. In this way, she embodies the idea that a young girl’s dream of becoming a princess may blossom into a life of dreams and accomplishments far beyond her childhood imagination.

Two young participants in the Aoi Matsuri procession wear traditional pink and white ceremonial robes at Kyoto's Imperial Palace. — Young participants in traditional ceremonial attire take part in the Aoi Matsuri procession at the Kyoto Imperial Palace, carrying a centuries-old tradition into the next generation.

Not only did the Heian period cultivate a world of courtly refinement and elegance, but it also gave rise to one of the great flowering periods of Japanese literature, producing enduring classics such as The Tale of Genji and The Pillow Book. The popularity of Aoi Matsuri during this period is reflected in The Tale of Genji. In the novel’s famous “Carriage Contest” episode, Aoi’s attendants force the carriage of Genji’s lover, Lady Rokujo, aside in a struggle for viewing space along the festival route. The humiliation deepens Rokujo’s jealousy, and her living spirit later possesses Aoi, ultimately leading to her death. Stories of jealous spirits, courtly rivalries, and the supernatural were recurring themes in Heian literature.

Yet the golden age of the Heian period would not last. As political power gradually passed from the imperial court and aristocracy to the rising samurai class, the refined culture that had flourished in Kyoto for centuries began to fade.

By the end of the twelfth century, civil wars and political upheaval had transformed Japan, ushering in a new age of austerity dominated by samurai warriors, a stark contrast to the refined culture of the Heian court.

Perhaps this is why Aoi Matsuri remains so dear to the people of Kyoto. Through wars, epidemics, famines, earthquakes, and other hardships, the festival has endured as a reminder of a more elegant world, inspiring people to persevere through adversity so that their children and grandchildren may one day watch Hina dolls come to life before their very eyes.

Heian Shrine: Remembering the Legacy of the Imperial Capital

What does Kyoto’s imperial heritage reveal about the city today? At Heian Shrine, palace architecture, seasonal gardens, and living traditions bring the legacy of Japan’s ancient capital to life.

For people like me who arrived in Japan long before the advent of the Internet and smartphones, Lonely Planet travel guides and encyclopedias were our go-to sources of information about the country. With only a handful of photographs to go by, most of which were black-and-white, much was left to the imagination.

Upon finally arriving in Kyoto and settling into an apartment near Ginkaku-ji, I rode the No. 5 bus almost every day, passing beneath the enormous vermilion torii gate marking the entrance to Heian Shrine. Its sheer size fascinated me.

Heian Shrine's enormous vermilion torii gate spanning a busy road in Kyoto — The enormous vermilion torii marking the entrance to Heian Shrine, which I passed beneath almost every day while riding the No. 5 bus.

It wasn’t until a friend’s solo violin concert in the shrine’s garden that I made my first visit there. For many years to come, it remained the shrine I visited for my New Year’s hatsumōde.

That made taking two young French women to the shrine, only to see their lack of enthusiasm, all the more disheartening. Having just come from the crowds at Fushimi Inari Shrine, they looked across Heian Shrine’s vast open courtyard and found it empty and uninteresting. Their disappointment surprised me and, to be honest, wounded me a little.

Heian Shrine's spacious courtyard and vermilion buildings in Kyoto — The vast open courtyard of Heian Shrine, which struck my French companions as surprisingly empty after the crowds at Fushimi Inari Shrine.

It was then that I realized Heian Shrine cannot be fully appreciated without some understanding of its historical and cultural significance.

Unlike Kyoto’s trendier destinations among foreign travelers, the appeal of Heian Shrine is not always immediately apparent. Yet to many people living in Kyoto, Heian Shrine stands as a testament to the soul of the city: an appreciation of beauty in the changing seasons along with a reverence for nature, artistic refinement, craftsmanship, and cultural traditions.

In that sense, Heian Shrine is more than a shrine. It is a touchstone for the traditions and aesthetic values that have shaped Kyoto and its people.

Traditional Japanese bride and groom posing for a wedding photograph in a garden

Young Japanese woman in kimono posing for a Coming-of-Age photograph at Heian Shrine

From wedding portraits and coming-of-age celebrations to visitors dressed in traditional period costume, Heian Shrine’s gardens offer a setting where Kyoto’s cultural traditions continue to find expression.

To better understand what Heian Shrine represents, it helps to understand the period it was created to commemorate.

In 794, the capital of Japan was transferred from Nara to Kyoto, then known as Heian-kyō. This marked the beginning of the Heian period, which lasted until 1185. The word Heian means “peace,” and because much of the period was characterized by relative stability, it is often remembered as Japan’s Golden Age, when members of the Imperial Court and aristocracy were free to devote themselves to cultural pursuits.

Artistic depiction of Emperor Kanmu seated on a throne in ceremonial robes

Artistic depiction of Emperor Kōmei seated in ceremonial robes

Heian Shrine enshrines Emperor Kanmu, the first emperor to rule from Kyoto, and Emperor Kōmei, the last emperor to reside in Kyoto before the imperial court moved to Tokyo.

More than a thousand years later, after enduring earthquakes, wars, epidemics, and political upheavals, Kyoto found itself facing a very different era. The Meiji Restoration of 1868 brought sweeping political and social changes as Japan embarked on a path of rapid modernization. Emperor Meiji and the Imperial Court moved from Kyoto to Tokyo, effectively ending Kyoto’s role as the nation’s political capital. For many residents, the move was a blow that raised concerns about the city’s place in a rapidly changing Japan.

Seeking to preserve its historical identity while embracing modernization, Kyoto undertook a series of ambitious public works and cultural projects. One of the most important was the Fourth National Industrial Exhibition, held in 1895. The exhibition transformed the largely undeveloped Okazaki area into a showcase of Japan’s future while celebrating the city’s historic past.

Built to commemorate the 1,100th anniversary of the founding of Heian-kyō, Heian Shrine became the centerpiece of this effort.

Completed in 1895, Heian Shrine was built at five-eighths scale to reproduce the Chōdō-in, or State Halls Compound, of the original Heian Palace, enabling visitors to step back in time and experience the grandeur of the ancient imperial capital. The shrine’s main buildings include the Daigokuden, the principal hall where the emperor presided over state affairs.

Sōryū-rō, or Azure Dragon Tower, at Heian Shrine in Kyoto — Sōryū-rō, or Azure Dragon Tower, is one of the distinctive structures reproduced from the Chōdō-in of the ancient Heian Palace.

Its spacious courtyards and striking vermilion buildings convey something of the scale and majesty that once characterized Japan’s ancient capital. Emperor Kanmu, who transferred the capital to Kyoto, and Emperor Kōmei, the last emperor to rule from the city, are enshrined here.

More than a partial recreation of the Heian Palace, it is a monument created by modern Kyoto to remember its roots while imagining just how far it could move forward.

Fast-forward a century, and we find that Okazaki remains one of Kyoto’s most important cultural districts. Alongside Heian Shrine are museums, theaters, exhibition halls, the municipal zoo, the Budo Center, and several public parks. Together, they form a cultural hub where art, performance, traditional crafts, recreation, and community life converge, allowing the area to serve as a bridge between Kyoto’s historic past and its modern future.

Kyoto’s future, of course, is not confined to its temples, shrines, and traditional arts. The city is also home to universities, research institutions, technology companies, and innovative businesses. Its aspiration has never been simply about preserving the past.

In that sense, Heian Shrine’s significance lies not in recreating a world that no longer exists, but in how Kyoto uses that past as part of its continuing identity.

In spring, visitors gather beneath its famous weeping cherry blossoms, while each October the shrine serves as the final destination of the Jidai Matsuri, one of Kyoto’s three great festival processions. The procession itself embodies the connection between Kyoto’s past and its present, carrying figures from the city’s long history through the streets of the modern city before arriving here.

Weeping cherry blossoms framing a pond and bridge in the garden of Heian Shrine in Kyoto — Weeping cherry blossoms framing a pond and bridge in the Shin’en Gardens at Heian Shrine.

The Shin’en Gardens at Heian Shrine cover approximately 30,000 square meters. Strolling along their paths offers visitors a chance to experience garden styles associated with different periods of Kyoto’s history, from the Heian period (794–1185) through the Kamakura (1185–1333), Momoyama (1568–1600), and Edo (1603–1868) periods.

The gardens’ spacious grounds, picturesque scenes, and elegant landscaping provide a peaceful respite from the surrounding city, allowing visitors to appreciate the natural beauty of each season. In the South Garden, winding paths, a tranquil stream, and spectacular weeping cherry blossoms evoke a time when members of the Imperial Court devoted themselves to poetry, music, and the refined expression of emotion through the changing seasons.

Traditional dance performers in colorful costumes at Heian Shrine in Kyoto — Traditional dance performed at Heian Shrine during Reisai Yokujitsusai, the observance held on the day following the shrine’s annual festival.

It is little wonder, then, that the shrine is frequently used as a backdrop for historical productions. NHK’s 2024 Taiga drama Hikaru Kimi e, which chronicles the life of Murasaki Shikibu, author of The Tale of Genji, was filmed in part at Heian Shrine to help recreate the atmosphere of the Heian court.

This link to the past is perhaps one reason why Heian Shrine remains such a visible symbol of Kyoto today, connecting the modern city with an age associated with peace and cultural refinement. In celebrating that legacy, Heian Shrine provides modern Kyoto with a tangible connection to one of the most influential periods in its history.

And if you happen to visit on a quiet weekday when the shrine is uncrowded, try looking beyond the buildings and gardens to the world it was intended to evoke. You may just find yourself transported back to a time when court nobles composed poetry, admired the changing seasons, and drifted across garden ponds in small boats.

That’s because Heian Shrine, like many other famous attractions in Kyoto, rewards the imagination.

What Makes a Japanese Bento Japanese?

The humble Japanese bento brings together rice, vegetables, meat, fish, and an increasingly international workforce. So what, exactly, makes a Japanese bento Japanese?

One of the most surprising things foreign travelers rave about has to be the Japanese bento, or boxed lunch. Whether sold at a train station, supermarket, or convenience store, the Japanese bento delivers a delicious meal at a reasonable price for people on the go. On a sunny day, I’ll buy one from a department store and eat it outside at a nearby park on my lunch break.

But just how Japanese are Japanese bentos these days?

The rice and vegetables may have been planted and harvested on Japanese farms by workers from Myanmar, meat and fish processed at Japanese food manufacturing plants by workers from Thailand and the Philippines, meals cooked and assembled at distribution centers by workers from Vietnam, and finished bentos sold in convenience stores by workers from Nepal. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when Japanese residents were asked to voluntarily remain at home and refrain from travel and social activities, these workers played a vital role in keeping essential services running.

With the graying of its population, Japan has confronted workforce needs through its highly structured Specified Skilled Worker (SSW) system. While not without shortcomings, this system provides a legal framework for employing foreign workers across 16 sectors fundamental to nearly every aspect of daily life in Japan, including food service, food manufacturing, nursing care, construction, agriculture, and manufacturing.

The system consists of two categories: Specified Skilled Worker No. 1 (SSW1), for workers with the practical skills and Japanese language ability required to work in a designated sector, and Specified Skilled Worker No. 2 (SSW2), for those who have further developed their professional skills, experience, and workplace responsibilities.

Beginning in April 2027, Japan will replace the Technical Intern Training Program with the new Employment for Skill Development Program. This new program is designed to develop workers, provide a clearer career pathway, strengthen language and skills development, and allow greater freedom to change employers within the same industry under certain conditions.

Overseas Recruitment and Worker Debt

For typical Japanese employers, screening prospective workers overseas and processing the documentation required to obtain a visa often exceeds their capacity. This is why much of the recruitment process is outsourced to Japanese placement agencies, which conduct the initial interviews locally and oversee pre-departure Japanese language training. It is at this stage that one of the most significant shortcomings of the system emerges.

Although Japanese employers typically pay placement agencies substantial fees of US$8,000 or more for each successful candidate, many prospective workers are also charged nearly the same amount in placement fees, often exceeding the average annual income in their home countries by two to four times. The Philippines is a notable exception, as recruitment fees charged to overseas workers are strictly regulated and, in many cases, prohibited.

For workers in other labor-sending countries such as Indonesia, Myanmar, Nepal, Thailand, and Vietnam, these fees frequently must be financed through burdensome loans, leaving much of their disposable income during their first several years in Japan devoted to debt repayment rather than a down payment on their future.

Under Japanese law, recruitment and placement fees are the responsibility of the employer, not the foreign worker. Yet workers recruited through overseas networks can still be required to pay substantial upfront fees in their home countries, creating a discrepancy between Japanese law and what workers may actually have to pay before coming to Japan.

Nuk’s Story

Consider the case of Nuk (a pseudonym), a 44-year-old single mother from a rural town outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand. Raised in poverty by her father and grandfather, she began helping to support her family while still in elementary school, selling fruits and vegetables at local markets. Her family home had no electricity, so she had to study by candlelight. At the age of 15, she entered the workforce while attending night school to complete her secondary education.

After working in the general affairs department of a Japanese company in Chiang Mai, Nuk decided to seek employment in Japan in the hope of saving enough money to buy a home for her retirement, a dream shared by many. To secure a position under the Technical Intern Training Program, she was required to pay the equivalent of US$8,000 in placement fees. She then spent three months in Bangkok receiving Japanese language training and orientation while residing in a dormitory operated by the placement agency, paying for her own meals and living expenses.

During her initial interview with representatives of the Japanese employer, communication was conducted through an interpreter. Upon successfully completing the program, she was placed at a food distribution center in western Japan.

There she worked six days a week, often 10- to 12-hour days, and was glad to receive overtime work since it enabled her to pay off her loan and support her son. At the same time, the company president valued workers like Nuk and treated them as equals to his Japanese employees, while understanding the difficulties of living far from home, adapting to a different culture, and communicating in a foreign language.

During her first five years in Japan, Nuk steadily improved her Japanese language ability and professional skills. Having previously attempted the nursing examination in Thailand without success, she instead built a career in food distribution and eventually passed the examinations required to qualify for SSW1 status. After returning to Chiang Mai when her visa expired, she supported herself and her son through work in local factories while studying how to prepare Thai course dinners, maintaining her Japanese language skills, and applying for positions that would allow her to return to Japan as an SSW1 worker and continue progressing toward SSW2.

Act Two in Japan

Unlike her first interview years earlier, which had required an interpreter, she was able to conduct her second-round interview entirely in Japanese, demonstrating the language proficiency she had acquired through years of living and working in Japan. Despite already possessing the necessary qualifications, work experience, and language ability, she and the other applicants in her group were informed that they would be required to pay another US$8,000 in placement fees and repeat language training and orientation in Bangkok.

Unwilling to do so, Nuk continued her job search and eventually received an offer from a food manufacturing company in Hokkaido. Even then, she was still required to pay over US$5,000 in placement fees before returning to Japan. Although the work differs from her previous position and the winters are far harsher than those in Thailand, Nuk has come to appreciate the sense of community among both Japanese and foreign workers at the plant in Hokkaido.

When asked by a customer visiting the factory what she disliked about the company, she smiled and replied, “Not enough overtime.”

On-Site Realities

Although public discussion of foreign labor in Japan often focuses on abuses, the reality in many large manufacturing and food-processing companies is more nuanced. The work can be demanding, involving long hours, overtime, and night shifts, but many workers value the opportunity to earn higher wages than would be available in their home countries and actively seek overtime work. Similarly, many employers provide low-cost housing, informal mentoring, and day-to-day support, and often develop strong relationships with their foreign employees. The relationship is often characterized by mutual appreciation and dependence.

One aspect of this dynamic that is often overlooked is its paternal nature. This becomes most apparent when a worker faces a personal crisis, such as a serious illness or a family emergency back home. In such situations, employers frequently step in to help navigate language barriers, administrative procedures, travel arrangements, and even unexpected financial burdens that would otherwise be difficult for the worker to manage alone.

Nuk first experienced that protectiveness when she was unable to return from a trip to Kyoto because a typhoon had stopped the trains. Expecting to be scolded when she called the company, she instead heard the calm voice of the company president, who asked if she was safe and reassured her that someone would cover her shift.

That is a side of Japanese corporate culture that is often overlooked in media coverage. If there is a weak point in the system, it lies in the recruitment process. Recruitment fees can saddle workers with debts amounting to several times their annual income, reducing the financial benefits of working abroad before they ever arrive in Japan.

Nuk’s experience highlights one of the challenges that Japan’s upcoming Employment for Skill Development Program seeks to address. The new framework places greater emphasis on oversight of recruiters and sending organizations and aims to reduce excessive recruitment costs that burden workers before they arrive in Japan. Yet many of the labor-sending countries involved already maintain laws intended to prevent such practices. Whether the reforms produce meaningful change will depend not only on the rules themselves, but also on the degree to which they can be enforced across complex recruitment networks spanning multiple countries.

Possibility for a Bright Future

If the reforms succeed in reducing recruitment fees and streamlining the hiring process, they will represent a significant improvement to Japan’s foreign labor system. At the same time, the new framework has raised concerns among both workers and employers. Few would dispute the need for stronger Japanese language skills, particularly in workplaces where safety and communication are critical. Yet foreign workers must often acquire those skills while working long hours, rotating shifts, and demanding jobs. Language training will therefore need to become part of the workplace itself rather than an expectation placed solely on workers outside of working hours.

Meanwhile, employers worry less about worker mobility than about maintaining stability. Foreign workers are protected by the same labor laws as Japanese employees, and many companies are willing to accommodate transfers when opportunities arise elsewhere. More often, the challenge is one of timing and continuity.

According to industry estimates, a Japanese employer may invest approximately US$7,000 to US$10,000 per worker during the first year of recruiting, relocating, and supporting a Specified Skilled Worker. These figures exclude wages, overtime, social insurance, pension contributions, and other statutory employment costs.

For a company hiring just ten workers, recruitment and onboarding expenses alone could exceed US$80,000.

No matter how far robotics and artificial intelligence advance, Japan’s need for skilled foreign workers is unlikely to disappear. The challenge for policymakers is not simply how to regulate that workforce, but how to create a system that allows workers and employers to build productive, long-term relationships based on mutual trust and benefit. The more successful Japan is in aligning the needs of employers with the aspirations of foreign workers, the greater the contribution those workers can make to the workplace, their local communities, and Japanese society as a whole.

And if Japan can succeed in fostering these relationships between companies and foreign workers, then the bentos sold at train stations, supermarkets, and convenience stores will truly be Japanese bentos.

Discovering the Aloha Spirit at Nishiki Market

What can 1980s Hawaii teach modern Kyoto about overtourism? A deep dive into balancing local heritage with global popularity, and why “Don’t” campaigns fail.

Wedging myself away from the crowd, I escaped Nishiki Market through a backstreet exit, leaving behind the hordes of foreign tourists trudging onward shoulder to shoulder. What should have been a simple grocery run felt instead like I had accidentally stepped into the queue for It’s a Small World at Disneyland.

Gone were the weekday mornings when you could leisurely push your bicycle through the arcade, admiring the meticulously arranged displays of fresh meat, fish, and produce while inhaling the scents—both pungent and sweet—of teas, Japanese confections, and prepared foods. Now many of the shops that once served as Kyoto’s Kitchen have been converted into Japanese tapas bars for foreign tourists wanting a taste of Kyotica.

Near where I had parked my bicycle sat a diminutive, gray‑haired Japanese obaasan on her shopping trolley, wearing a kimono tucked neatly beneath a kappōgi apron. Having just fought through the mob myself, I understood her look of dread as she gathered the energy to stand up and enter the arena.

“Konnichi‑wa,” I greeted her, bowing slightly before slipping in behind her to unlock my bicycle.

“Konnichi‑wa,” she responded, unfazed that I was a foreigner. “Era’i kotcha. Nishiki mo nigiyaka ya na. Gaikoku no hito, yō Nihon ni ki haru wa.” (“Goodness me. Nishiki is certainly bustling today. So many foreigners are coming to Japan these days.”)

She tilted her head slightly, as if wondering whether I had caught her drift. That tilt communicated all I needed to know: her comment about the foreigners was far from flattering.

“Ugokahen na. Kyō, ojako kau no ni sanjuppun kakaru wa.” (“The crowd isn’t moving, is it? It took me thirty minutes just to buy some baby sardines.”)

I hoped I had landed the sentence‑ending wa properly. Men in Kansai can use wa without sounding feminine, but the intonation has to be right. Her wry smile told me that I had—or at least that she approved of the effort.

I had felt the same anxiety upon arriving in Honolulu, my home before coming to Japan. There, I had to learn new words and the proper Island pronunciation of old ones, beginning with the state’s name, Hawai‘i. Even after mastering its pronunciation, I had to learn to stop moving my head like a bobblehead every time I said it.

To me, Honolulu and Kyoto—my two adopted homes—both have their own distinctive language and culture, but as I hear the quiet grumbling in Kyoto, I can’t help remembering my life in Honolulu and the many aspects that the two cities share.

The Overtourism Everyone Forgets

“They don’t bother to learn our culture.”

“They treat our home like a theme park.”

“They only speak their language and expect everyone to understand.”

“They stay in their own bubble.”

You may have already guessed that these words were spoken by residents of Kyoto, and you would not be wrong, but residents of Spain, Italy, Bali, and Greece, to name a few, have also echoed them like a city planner’s mantra. I first heard them while living in the Rainbow State during the 1980s, long before the term “overtourism” had even been coined.

Beginning in the 1980s and continuing through the height of Japan’s bubble economy, Japanese tourists arrived in Hawai‘i in record numbers. Between 1986 and 1991, the number of Japanese visitors more than doubled.

In Waikiki, Japanese tourists became an extraordinarily visible presence. They filled hotels, restaurants, shopping centers, buses, and beaches, all the while using disposable cameras to perfect the art of the selfie long before iPhones and selfie sticks ever existed. Japanese office ladies lugged oversized suitcases through hotel lobbies. Dive bars along Waikiki, with their three‑dollar happy‑hour drinks and free pupus, disappeared, giving way to duty‑free shops and designer boutiques. McDonald’s added sōmen noodles to its menu. Storefront signs that had once been only in English appeared in Japanese as well.

Even the streetwalkers understood the need to learn Japanese. I once watched as a tall, blonde in shorts and tube top tease a group of Japanese university students, calling out, “Gakusei waribiki!” (“Student discount!”) as she was walking along Kalākaua Avenue.

What I hated was that she spoke better Japanese than I did.

The giant tour buses were impossible to miss. They circled O‘ahu nonstop, ferrying visitors to destinations such as the Dole Plantation, Hanauma Bay, and the Polynesian Cultural Center. From behind their tinted windows, Japanese tourists photographed everyday scenes with the enthusiasm of safari‑goers spotting exotic wildlife: a girl carrying a boogie board, a Hawaiian‑Portuguese family having a barbecue in the park, or a yellow school bus pulling away from a local elementary school.

Aside from feeling as though their daily lives had been turned into a TV reality show, residents faced deeper concerns. Japanese companies were buying hotels, condominiums, golf courses, retail properties, and other pieces of Hawai‘i itself, crowding out opportunities for people who lived there. To some, the Islands seemed to be turning into Japan’s forty‑eighth prefecture, and some Japanese visitors behaved as if they already had.

Ironically, that same investment helped shield Hawai‘i from the S&L crisis that plunged much of the Mainland economy into recession, demonstrating that the relationship with Japan was often mutually beneficial.

For those working downtown, like I was, there were locals acting as intermediaries with the Japanese property owners, but at the frontlines the frustration was real. I remember visiting a friend working at the DFS Galleria, who suddenly turned to me and said, “I hate these damn Japanese people.”

“But Yoshi, you’re Japanese American.”

“I know. That’s why I feel so conflicted.”

Now I know how Yoshi felt. Whenever I walk along the crowded sidewalks of Shijō, I often get shoulder‑bumped by some foreign man unwilling to yield “his” space, even as I’m turning sideways to avoid him. In those moments, I catch myself saying, “How I hate foreigners.”

And recently, at Fushimi Inari, I saw an American man park his butt on a ceremonial offering table while posing for a photo in front of a small shrine, and I found myself running toward him before I even realized what I was doing.

“No, no, no, you can’t do that!”

“Oh, is this wrong?”

Duh.

Been There, Done It

Like Kyoto residents today, what many residents in Hawai‘i felt was not true hostility toward Japanese people but a sense of helplessness in the face of rapid change. They watched familiar places cater increasingly more to visitors and investors while their cultural heritage and way of life were commercialized, packaged, and sold for the entertainment of Japanese consumers, much as they had been for visitors from the Mainland.

The Aloha Spirit may have become a marketing slogan, but it was rooted in ho‘okipa, the Hawaiian tradition of welcoming guests with generosity and care. What many feared was that a genuine expression of welcome, as simple as placing a lei around a visitor’s neck, was being commoditized. Beneath the grumbling lay a deeper anxiety: that prosperity was coming at the expense of identity and the freedom to live their own lives.

Over time, Hawai‘i learned through great difficulties that the tourism industry required more than emotional venting. Civic leaders realized that a healthy visitor economy depended on residents maintaining a positive attitude toward visitors, and achieving this would require residents to feel respected, heard, and included in the decision‑making. Most local residents recognized the economic benefits of tourism, as long as it was managed responsibly.

Despite decades of efforts to diversify the economy, tourism remained, and still remains, the stream that sustains island life. The challenge was never whether tourism should exist. The challenge was how to channel its benefits while protecting the natural beauty, cultural heritage, and communities that gave the Islands their character.

The answer many eventually embraced was rooted in aloha itself.

Aloha is often misunderstood as nothing more than a greeting. In Hawaiian culture, however, it represents a deeply held belief about one’s responsibilities to both people and place. The ancient kahunas taught that living with aloha meant sharing positive energy with everyone and everything in one’s environment. For the ali‘i, aloha represented a balance of empathy and discipline. Respect flowed upward from the people, while responsibility flowed downward from leaders entrusted with the care of land, resources, and communities.

That principle survives in the phrase Aloha ‘Āina, love of the land. More than affection, it implies stewardship and obligation. Protecting beaches, reefs, watersheds, cultural sites, and neighborhoods was therefore inseparable from tourism policy. For many residents, it was tourism policy.

Residents made clear that what they wanted was not less tourism but responsible and regenerative growth. They wanted a visitor industry that protected access to beaches, roads, cultural landscapes, and local communities while managing crowds before they became disruptive. They wanted tourism’s economic benefits to flow visibly to local businesses, workers, cultural organizations, and public infrastructure. They also wanted visitors to arrive with a better understanding of Hawai‘i itself: its place names, history, customs, and responsibilities.

From those principles flowed a gentle messaging that invited visitors to share in these resident priorities, reflecting the spirit of aloha through positive reminders that hospitality and responsibility flow together—and it always ended with that one beautiful phrase:

“Mahalo for your kōkua.”

If Hawai‘i is famous for the spirit of aloha, Japan is famous for omotenashi, hospitality. Kyoto is especially known for a style of omotenashi shaped by centuries of ritual, etiquette, and unwritten social rules. To foreign visitors, however, that world of nuance is often reduced to a handful of simple prohibitions:

“Don’t take photos.” “Don’t eat while walking.” “Don’t block the streets.”

For the average, well‑meaning tourist, a wall of prohibitions strips away the joy of hospitality and replaces it with a low‑grade anxiety that they are constantly breaking an invisible rule. For a small minority indifferent to rules or manners, however, a “Don’t” sign can become an invitation, marking the exact boundary of acceptable behavior and daring them to challenge it.

A more effective approach is to invite visitors to become partners in preserving a historic neighborhood and to see it as a living community rather than a theme park. Most people willingly accept restrictions when they understand their purpose. For the few who do not, a visible police presence and a willingness to enforce laws protecting safety and property are essential.

Hawai‘i eventually learned that tourism was not a temporary phenomenon but a permanent reality. The conversation shifted from grumbling about tourists to managing tourism. Kyoto has begun moving in that direction, but it has yet to fully embrace a similarly regenerative vision.

Few places on earth possess such an extraordinary concentration of cultural resources as Kyoto. Just as Hawai‘i placed the beauty of its islands at the center of the visitor experience, Kyoto’s appeal lies in its living culture. That living culture cannot be found in projection‑mapped temple walls or seasonal illuminations, but in the thousands of volunteers who preserve traditions such as Aoi Matsuri, Gion Matsuri, and Jidai Matsuri, along with the tea practitioners, flower arrangement instructors, shrine parishioners, okamisans, and ordinary citizens who quietly sustain Kyoto’s culture and heritage.

Visitors should leave Kyoto not merely with photographs, but with an understanding of the people and traditions that made them possible.

Undoubtedly, a surge in tourism brings its share of frustrations, but beneath many of them lies something deeper: the fear of change itself. Yes, I miss the dive bars across from Waikiki Beach, the tofu ice cream at Nishiki Market, and the ease of approaching a maiko‑san on the street for a photograph. But the obaasan and I each have our own memories of a Kyoto that no longer exists. It is time for the next generation to make their own.

Besides, Kyoto obaasans are tougher than they look. Anyone standing near a bus exit when they are getting off will tell you that.

AI Helps Translators Write Their Own Obituaries

Is AI writing the final chapter for native English translators? A humorous yet cautious look from the corporate trenches on why fluent AI prose can be dangerously deceptive—and why humans must stay in the driver’s seat.

Many large Japanese companies with translation departments, including mine, have been evaluating machine translation and AI assistants to improve quality, increase speed, and reduce labor costs—particularly those associated with employing people like me. So, with my head potentially on the chopping block, you might expect me to explain why in‑house translators, especially native English-speaking translators, are essential to a company’s success.

But I can’t. My AI assistant won’t let me. Instead, I am here to write my own obituary on behalf of myself and other native English-speaking translators.

Since maritime traders began using English as their common language, international trade has endured and even prospered under business correspondence that was as cryptic as a crafty pirate’s treasure map. It will certainly survive a few AI indiscretions, with or without a native English translator there to save the day.

What English translators have done by translating understated Japanese into clearly stated English and spending hours tightening prose, untangling modifiers, and hunting down wandering antecedents is to add another layer of trust for a colleague, product, service, or company. Gone are the days when consumers in English-speaking countries threw their operation manuals down in disgust.

Nevertheless, the exodus of teary-eyed translators walking out the company’s door with a cardboard box, flowers, and a farewell card signed by their colleagues seems inevitable.

“Sayōnara, Mr. Native English Translator!” the in-house Japanese translators will say while secretly gleeful that their nemesis with the red pen is leaving, unaware that they too may just be whistling past the graveyard.

That said, before you begin stacking logs onto my funeral pyre and publishing my obituary, I have some caveats.

The Caveats

It’s certainly true that machine translation and AI assistants provide access to an extraordinary amount of knowledge about English composition and grammar through a browser window, allowing anyone with a keyboard and an internet connection to write like a budding Ernest Hemingway.

The process is lightning fast, and when applied appropriately, these translation tools help Japanese translators instantly correct awkward expressions, confusing prepositions, and pesky articles. Likewise, English translators, who had once spent years wrestling with the complexities of kanji and the nuances of Japanese, now have the ability to paste a document into an AI assistant and receive a translation that is often remarkably good.

But using digital tools to improve translation is nothing new. Translators have been quietly using their predecessors, a.k.a. software translation applications and online translation sites, for years while feigning ignorance of their existence.

Having begun translating professionally in an era when English translators had to prove their fitness with a translation test, a couple of sheets of paper, a Japanese-English dictionary, two sharpened HB pencils, and an eraser, I am of two minds. One, it’s not fair, damn it!! Two, these tools give all translators the opportunity to better serve their customers.

The Risks of AI-Assisted Translation

When we consider entrusting our lives and livelihoods to AI, we have to consider its risks and reliability. Ninety-five percent reliability might seem acceptable until you are talking about driverless cars and fatalities. Then you might start thinking that the crazy driver in the next lane is actually Mario Andretti.

Working with AI-generated prose requires translators to learn a different set of pitfalls from those associated with traditional machine translation. While machine translation often risks saying too little, AI assistants increasingly risk saying too much. What makes AI-assisted errors particularly troublesome is that they are often veiled in fluent, compelling English:

Presenting inferences as established facts
Prioritizing fluency over fidelity
Overlooking or misinterpreting specialized terminology
Adding specificity not present in the source text
Normalizing writing to a common style
Softening assertions it perceives as controversial
Projecting the image of the ultimate authority

Often readers will forgive the occasional grammatical error or misspelling, but when the subject becomes confused with the object and facts are replaced with suppositions, they start to distrust what they are reading. Consequently, that layer of trust surrounding a colleague, product, service, or company and earned over decades can instantly erode.

Like autonomous driving, AI-assisted translation works remarkably well right up until it makes a wrong turn into a lake, turning autonomous into amphibious. That’s why a competent driver needs to be at the wheel, ready to take over when necessary.

A New Skill Set for Translators

One lesson from the rapid adoption of AI is that translators now need training not only in language but also in how to use these tools effectively. Knowing when to trust a translation, when to challenge it, and when to verify terminology has become as important as producing the translation itself.

For that reason, I believe both Japanese and English translators should continue translating documents themselves, even if only as a first draft. AI can then serve as a valuable second opinion, offering alternative interpretations, suggesting improvements, and identifying possible errors. This means keeping the translator in the driver’s seat, responsible for the final decisions, and the AI assistant as his trusted navigator.

Once the translator is confident that the meaning has been accurately captured, AI can perform one of the tasks at which it excels: proofreading. At that stage, suggestions regarding style, clarity, grammar, punctuation, and readability can be evaluated without risking the loss of meaning during the original translation process.

In other words, the translator determined the destination while the digital tools help determine the best route to get there.

A Case Study: The Anniversary Book

Last year, I was asked to proofread the English translation of our parent company’s anniversary book which included interviews with 96 employees across the group. The interviews were conducted by three members of HR who relied heavily on machine translation and, at times, AI-assisted translation and editing.

At first glance, the translation appeared professionally done, and I expected the assignment to be straightforward. However, once I began reading for meaning rather than grammar and punctuation, I noticed a pattern of excessive intensifiers and unnecessarily flowery language that transformed genuine accounts of overcoming challenges and personal growth into something resembling a Marvel Avengers origin story. The over-the-top description became a distraction, causing me to lose trust in the content.

Needless to say, the interviews were painful to read. There was also a hotchpotch of rookie mistakes, including changing groupwide to groupwise in a title. More troubling than the occasional awkward sentence or sudden shifts in point of view was the paraphrasing and omission of key corporate terms and phrases used consistently throughout the company. The result was English that often sounded more glamorous and grandiose than the original Japanese while bearing only a passing resemblance to the values and lessons the employees were trying to convey.

In the past, I would have been involved in either the translation or editing process. This time, buoyed by the hype surrounding AI and their own experience using it to produce polished emails and reports, the employees never questioned what was being presented to them. What was needed was the judgment of experienced translators accustomed to questioning both themselves and their colleagues.

That’s not vanity. That’s experience.

Authority vs. Correctness

Machine translation users must ensure that proper terminology is used and that key corporate terms, phrases, and concepts are not omitted. AI assistants require a different kind of vigilance. Someone must still be willing to challenge the machine when it confidently asserts, “This is the more natural expression,” “Native speakers would normally say …,” or “This wording is correct because …”

What I have noticed is that the translator may not always possess the linguistic confidence to challenge those assertions. In this case, the AI’s conjecture often becomes fact; its preference becomes a rule, and its style becomes the standard.

As a native English-speaking translator, I can evaluate an AI’s suggestions and push back when I disagree. Many Japanese translators do not enjoy that luxury. Faced with a confident explanation of why one expression is preferable to another, they may understandably treat the AI as an authority. And if they don’t, they risk that their clients might.

The problem is that authority and correctness are not always the same thing, and when repeated often enough, an AI’s conjectures can harden into accepted facts.

What AI Still Can’t Do

What the anniversary book taught me was that the problem was not the English. Much of it was grammatically correct and stylistically polished. The problem was that the translation lacked the institutional knowledge possessed by people working within the company. AI could generate attractive prose, but it did not know which terms carried significance, which expressions reflected corporate values, or which wording had been intentionally standardized over time. Those are things learned through experience, conversation, and physical presence within an organization.

A translator sitting inside a company does more than translate documents. He attends meetings, asks questions, observes how people communicate, learns the history behind recurring terminology, and develops an understanding of the company’s culture and priorities. Those insights rarely appear in source documents, yet they often determine whether a translation is authentic or merely sounds authentic.

The technology available today is phenomenal, but it is most valuable when used as a point of comparison against a translator’s own work and as a resource for checking facts, terminology, and expressions. There is a reason virtually every AI provider includes a disclaimer reminding users that mistakes can occur.

Reports of Death Greatly Exaggerated

In retrospect, it seems that the timing of my obituary may have been greatly exaggerated. In-house translators, including English translators, bring something that machines cannot: physical presence within the company, an understanding of its history and culture, professional judgment, and intuition developed through experience. Those qualities ultimately reduce both translation costs and legal risk.

AI may not be helping translators write their obituaries after all, but simply revealing that a translator’s greatest responsibility is, and has always been, not to translate words, but to preserve meaning.

Nantoka Naru: Somehow, Everything Will Work Out

How does an American literature student with $300, a mountain backpack, and zero Japanese end up as a translator in Osaka for 30 years? A humorous reflection on the winding path of curiosity, fixing broken sports cars, and the art of trusting that everything will work out.

Of all the careers I ever imagined pursuing when I was young, translation never made the list. Nor did I ever consider studying a foreign language, much less Japanese, after ninth-grade French made me realize that I would never be ordering food in a French restaurant like James Bond. It would always be much more like Maxwell Smart.

And yet here I am now, an ordinary American living in Japan with nearly 30 years’ experience as a translator.

The plan upon leaving Honolulu and my first job after university had been remarkably simple: go to Japan, learn Japanese, return to America, and work for a Japanese company as a Japanese-speaking American liaison.

The only major problem to overcome was the fact that I spoke virtually no Japanese aside from the one phrase “Yubin kyoku ga doko ni arimasu ka” or “Where is the post office?” Unless I had a letter to mail, opportunities to use it were extremely rare, and people today would just show me the Google Maps app instead.

Nevertheless, I arrived at Osaka’s Itami Airport in the evening from Honolulu, with An Introduction to Modern Japanese, a one-year open-return ticket, a large mountain backpack, and $300 in my pocket. I had no hotel reservation, no job, and no particular reason to believe that a plan rooted in such extreme optimism would end in anything other than utter catastrophic failure — a testament to my happy-go-lucky, nantoka naru approach: somehow, everything will work out.

And yet, with a helping hand here, a lucky break there, and lots of instant ramen noodles in between, the plan did work out, sort of — except that decades later, rather than working as the American liaison for some important Japanese executive in the United States, I’m still in Japan, unheralded and underappreciated, diligently slaving away at translating the documents for some other American liaison to hand to that Japanese executive.

So, how did I wind up becoming a translator in Japan? Good question. Certainly not how you may think.

In retrospect, my training, if you could call it that, probably began years earlier with a second-hand car purchased at a police auction for $200.

That automobile was a blue 1970 Opel GT, a two-door sports coupe styled like a baby Corvette. German-engineered with the temperament of an Italian car, the car muffler would, without warning, disengage from the rest of the car. Just as unpredictable was a fickle battery that capriciously shunned its responsibility to start the engine, leading to an embarrassing situation in which a petite traveling companion would have to supply the needed forward inertia while I popped the clutch for a push start.

As any Opel GT owner will tell you, if cars could suffer from bipolar disorder, this car would have all the symptoms.

This is why I spent many days during high school lying on my back looking up underneath the car, with a wrench in one hand and a car repair manual spread open to the latest problem. More paramedic than mechanic, when an emergency arose and I was stumped, I would consult Sandy, who worked the counter at my nearby NAPA Genuine Parts store. A redheaded automotive guru and single mother in her late thirties, Sandy was uncanny in her ability to instantly visualize the problem, disappear into the back, return with the replacement part within seconds, and explain exactly how to install it.

“But my world of thermodynamics and wiring diagrams would soon become short-circuited.”

Which was good for me because my blue baby had a voracious appetite for oil and replacement parts. To feed that appetite, I worked various part-time jobs in construction after school and in the summer, where I learned the basics of carpentry, electrical wiring, HVAC, and plumbing. Combined with above-average scores in mathematics and science on my college entrance tests, these practical skills led me to believe that I was destined to be an engineer.

But my world of thermodynamics and wiring diagrams would soon become short-circuited.

After declaring a major in engineering, I spent my first year in university in the School of Engineering attending core classes. Then came my sophomore year, when I took a required World Literature course at 7:30 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays (for God knows why).

That’s when a literature professor changed my life by changing how I read books. He taught the class that the words and images a writer chooses are not simply ornamental. They reveal the writer’s individual perception of life, much as the colors, subjects, and composition chosen by a painter reveal the way the painter sees the world. Why does a writer choose one word rather than another? Why does one image remain in the mind while another disappears? How can a small change in language alter the feeling of an entire passage?

Until then, reading had largely been about acquiring knowledge and information. Now I became interested in how a writer created the world I was reading. Writing, I began to understand, is often a search for that one word or phrase that most eloquently captures the image and sentiment an author wishes to convey.

That concept has stayed with me.

From that literature class, my interests began to stray from engineering. I studied drawing and music history and became involved in drama — even landing a part in a university play. I took part in small creative-writing workshops taught by established contemporary authors, including James Leo Herlihy and Ken Kesey. Suddenly, engineering no longer seemed my destined path and I changed majors to English literature.

None of this was part of what I initially conceived: I was simply following what interested me. Looking back, however, I can see that my interests were teaching me different ways of seeing and communicating. Drawing taught me to look. Music taught me to listen. Drama taught me to understand words not only as text, but as something spoken by another person with an intention, a character, and an emotion aligned with a theme. Creative writing taught me to search for my own words. Literature taught me to pay attention to someone else’s.

Years later, when I began translating Japanese into English, I found myself trying to do something analogous to what my literature professor had taught us to recognize, and it made me realize that a translator is not simply looking for the English equivalent of a Japanese word. The real challenge was to find the corresponding word or phrase that creates the same image, conveys the same intention, and leaves the reader with the same essential impression as the original Japanese.

Whether it came from books or practical experience, I never clearly knew the path I was following, but I let my curiosity guide me, and I trusted my instincts to tell me when it was time to deviate from the path I was currently following.

After university, I took an entry-level position at an S&L in Honolulu. Life in the land of paradise has its own rewards, but rarely were they monetary. My salary was just high enough to eke out a living, but the high cost of living on Oahu prevented any possibility of saving money, and the uncertainty of promotion combined with the looming S&L crisis eliminated any chance for advancement in the near future.

It was at that time that I started hearing the siren song of Japan: “Come make money teaching English and see Asia. You can learn Japanese from your students.”

This was the era of Japan as Number One. Japanese companies and products appeared unstoppable, and Japanese billionaires and mega-corporations were aggressively acquiring hotels, private golf courses, commercial properties, and luxury residential homes. Meanwhile, Japanese tourists outspent tourists from the mainland nearly 2 to 1. As the U.S. slid toward a recession, Japan seemed to represent the future.

So I went to Osaka.

As fate would have it, I quickly got a job teaching English, and after saving tuition money I began studying in a Japanese intensive course for six months at a Japanese school in Kyoto. From there, I worked even harder to study the language in earnest.

I read a Japanese newspaper article every day, looking up unfamiliar kanji in a dictionary by counting the number of strokes. With a nagging brother telling me I had to learn Excel for my future, I built a barebones computer and installed DOS/V so that I could write Japanese. My desire to create multimedia content — and install audio and video boards — often displeased the Windows 3.1 deities of IRQ lines and DMA channels. When something went wrong, I read technical manuals and called tech support in Tokyo.

Years later, I would realize that those technical manuals had been teaching me another language: the language of technology.

Then Japan’s bubble economy collapsed, and I found myself in an entirely different role. I became a labor representative at the English conversation school where I worked. Suddenly, I was reading Japanese labor law, leading labor demonstrations, appearing on television, and negotiating with my school’s management.

Newspapers, computer manuals, labor law: none of these looked like translation experience at the time. But they were. Each one was teaching me how to take unfamiliar information, understand its meaning and context, and accurately communicate its nuances.

Eventually, I saw an advertisement in The Japan Times for freelance technical translators at a Kyoto translation company. I had never worked professionally as a translator. Still, my résumé contained journalism experience and work proofreading medical papers for physicians at Osaka City University Hospital and Kyoto University Hospital. That was apparently enough to get my foot in the door for an interview.

The translation test was an astoundingly low-tech affair but typical of that time. I was taken into a room alone and handed a Japanese manuscript, a Japanese-English dictionary, two sharpened pencils, and an eraser. Thirty minutes. That was it. For someone accustomed to today’s translation technology, it sounds almost prehistoric.

The company specialized in technical translations for manufacturers throughout Kansai. Much of the work involved semiconductors, but the company also handled consumer electronics, industrial machinery, and operation manuals. I had no idea what would appear on the test, but I knew that I had to prepare in some way. I chose the “Getting Started” section of a software manual in my bookcase and translated it. When I saw the translation passage at the interview, I discovered the passage to be extremely similar to the one I had practiced.

I received a high score and soon began my first professional translation assignments.

But getting translation work and becoming a good translator are two different things. My Japanese was still developing. Because I had never formally studied Japanese at a university, I spent many late nights identifying unfamiliar kanji characters by counting strokes and searching dictionaries. It was a slow, painstaking process, and it was necessary.

But Japanese ability alone wasn’t what ultimately gave me an advantage. My real advantage came from everything I had done before becoming a translator. I understood technical material because I had spent years repairing cars and studying engineering. I understood manuals because I had read them to build computers. And I understood language because I had spent years thinking about why writers choose the words they do.

Many translators had stronger Japanese skills than I did, but I could often determine what a document was actually trying to communicate and then search for the right English word or phrase that would communicate it naturally to engineers, technicians, and ordinary users.

That became my competitive advantage.

Freelancing taught me another lesson. A freelance translator who relies on only one client eventually becomes a freelance translator without work, so I joined several agencies and translated everything from semiconductor documentation to company brochures. Each field had its own terminology, rules, and audience.

Then the semiconductor industry began moving offshore, and the translation work in Kyoto gradually dried up.

Once again, I needed a plan.

I began looking for an in-house translation position. Just as I was preparing to return to a steady diet of instant ramen noodles, I saw an advertisement for an in-house translator at a midsized company in Kyoto.

I applied, completed the interview, took the translation test, and later I was hired. Lady Luck had smiled upon me again.

Several months later, I asked my department manager why he had selected me.

“You live closer to the company,” he said. “I figured it would be easier for you to get to work on time.”

That answer serves as the perfect counterargument to people who meticulously plan out their lives. Sometimes you just have to have courage and take a leap of faith, knowing that somehow things will work out. Nantoka naru. A phrase I never knew until I came to Japan, but one that expresses a philosophy I’ve been living all my life.

Where the Obon Homecoming Begins

In the dog days of August, as the cicadas pass the baton to dragonflies darting above rice fields, families throughout Kansai prepare their homes to welcome special guests: their departed ancestors. From August 14 to 16, people in the Kansai region celebrate the Buddhist practice of Obon, a three‑day homecoming in which those inhabiting the spiritual world return—metaphorically speaking—to the world of the living.

Obon is one of Western Japan’s most cherished observances. So much so that many companies close their offices to allow employees time to travel back to their hometowns for reunions that span not only generations, but also the physical and spiritual worlds.

Ceremonial lanterns are lit, and offerings are placed before the family butsudan (Buddhist altar). Outside, Japanese folk music carries across the neighborhood from makeshift festival towers built for bon odori. Singers and musicians standing atop the tower beckon residents of every generation—from small children to their grandparents—to slip into a yukata or jinbei and join the circle of dancers moving around the raised stage.

To a Western observer, Obon may seem a bit ghoulish, if not a little morbid, but holidays honoring ancestors returning from the netherworld are common throughout Asia, where ancestral worship often predates organized religion. Newly introduced faiths such as Buddhism, seeking acceptance in these cultures, adapted their teachings to align with longstanding traditions.

To understand the significance behind this ethereal exodus from the underworld, it’s important to understand the role that Buddhist rituals and cosmology play in helping Japanese cope with the loss of a loved one.

Preparing the Path Home

In Japan, nearly ninety percent of funerals are carried out within the Buddhist tradition. Shinto’s discomfort with death and Christianity’s preference for ground burials left Buddhist temples to guide families through loss for more than a millennium. From the wake and funeral to cremation, the conferring of a posthumous Buddhist name, and the memorial services that follow, Buddhist burial rites carefully orchestrate a large swell of grief into something that unfolds gradually over weeks, months, and years.

Upon their passing, the deceased rests in a quiet room prepared for the wake—whether in the family home, a temple hall, or a funeral facility. Dressed in white and surrounded by flowers, the body lies in a simple casket as friends, neighbors, and coworkers stop by to pay their respects. They offer incense, speak softly with the family, and linger for a few moments before continuing on their way, while relatives take turns keeping vigil beside the body through the night.

Mourners signing the registry and offering condolence money at a funeral reception. — At the funeral reception, guests sign their names in the registry and present condolence money before entering the ceremony.

On the day following the wake, mourners arrive in black suits and formal kimono, giving their names and condolence money at the reception desk—whether beneath a tent outside a home or in the lobby of a funeral hall. One by one, they enter the ceremonial space. They bow before the flower‑lined casket, then to the family seated nearby, before offering a pinch of incense and a whispered prayer.

As people wait in a single-file line to bow and offer incense, you might see someone—maybe an elderly neighbor—pause at the altar longer than most. For a moment, she remains motionless, as though sharing a final, unspoken thought with the deceased before bowing once more and stepping aside for the next mourner. No one thinks it strange: we all say goodbye in our own way.

Once the funeral has ended and a member of the family expresses gratitude to those who attended, a hearse arrives to carry the departed to the crematorium. Hours later, the family gathers around the cremated remains laid out on a metal tray. Using long chopsticks, they carefully select several bones, passing them from one family member to the next before placing them in an urn. The room is quiet except for the gentle instructions of the attendant.

For the next forty-nine days, the family observes a series of memorial services and a mourning period as the deceased is believed to make the passage to the next realm. While Buddhist tradition focuses upon the soul’s transition, the rites serve an equally important purpose for those left dealing with their grief.

A Buddhist priest leading memorial prayers at a family’s home during the 49‑day mourning period. — A Buddhist priest visits a family’s home to conduct memorial prayers held during the forty‑nine days following the funeral.

After forty-nine days, the formal ceremonies begin to recede, but the deceased remains present within the household. Many Japanese families maintain a butsudan, where incense is offered and prayers are quietly recited before memorial tablets bearing the names of departed relatives.

Fresh flowers appear beside bowls of seasonal fruit. A daughter pauses at her father’s photograph before leaving for work. A student shares the results of an entrance examination with his grandfather. The responses are felt rather than heard.

Over time, the relationship undergoes a subtle transformation. The father who once occupied his place at the dinner table, the grandmother whose voice once filled the house, or the child whose toys once scattered the living room are no longer physically present. Yet their spirit remains part of family life through memory, ritual, and reflection—remembrance not marked by a day on the calendar, but rather through a daily observance woven into the ordinary rhythms of everyday living.

Calling the Spirits Home

A night photograph of a stone Buddhist altar flanked by two large, glowing white paper lanterns with Japanese calligraphy inside the gravel courtyard of Rokudo Chinnoji Temple in Kyoto. — Illumined lanterns mark the historic Rokudō no Tsuji (Crossroads of the Six Realms) altar at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji Temple, famously known as the legendary Heian-period entrance to the underworld.

Several days before Obon officially begins, many Kansai families make their way to Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji Temple. As dusk settles over Kyoto, lanterns cast a soft glow across the temple grounds, and the air carries the heavy scent of incense. Calling one’s ancestors back home here follows a precise yet profoundly simple ritual. It begins along the temple approach, where families purchase a Koyama‑maki—a sacred pine branch believed to serve as the physical vessel for returning spirits.

A night photo showing a crowd of people waiting in front of long tables covered by a purple banner where Buddhist monks are writing on wooden tablets under lit paper lanterns. — Under a row of glowing lanterns, families wait patiently in line outside the Main Hall as temple priests brush ancestral names onto wooden Mizu-toba tablets.

Next, they wait patiently in line for a priest to brush the loved one’s Kaimyō, or posthumous Buddhist name, onto a slender wooden Mizu‑toba tablet. Gently holding both sacred pine and tablet, the family steps before the hidden Mukae-gane, the Welcoming Bell. As they pull the thick rope extending through the wall of its small wooden bell housing, the bell—resting safely out of sight above an ancient opening to the underworld—sends a deep, resonant toll into the earth, inviting the spirits home.

Mizuko Jizō altar at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji, where families offer prayers for children who passed before birth or shortly after. — Red lanterns illuminate the *Mizuko Jizō* altar at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji Temple, where families pray and leave offerings for children lost before birth or shortly after.

From the bell housing, they walk quietly toward the Sai no Kawara Jizō altar to complete the rite. At this symbolic riverbed boundary of the underworld, the atmosphere deepens into something both solemn and tender. Some have come to welcome a parent. Others a spouse, a sibling, a grandparent, and others still a young child. A few may be observing Hatsubon, the first Obon following a recent death. Within their prayers, they carry their own private memories, regrets, gratitude, and longing. No eulogies are spoken, and no overt displays of emotion disturb the stillness of the temple grounds.

Visitors finishing the washing of a memorial tablet at the Jizō purification basin at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji. — A couple stands beneath glowing lanterns to splash water over their inscribed tablet, completing the sacred *Mizu-eko* ritual to welcome their ancestors home.

To foreign travelers visiting at night, the scene can feel like a living ghost story—eerie, yet deeply moving. Under the flicker of lanterns against the darkness, an elderly woman is steadied by her daughter as she pulls the heavy rope emerging from the wooden walls. Nearby, at the water basin, a mother guides her children’s small hands to dip the Koyama‑maki pine branch into the water, gently splashing it over the inscribed tablet to complete the final Mizu‑eko blessing. The deep reverberations of the concealed bell linger in the humid summer air, turning the sultry night into an unforgettable threshold between two worlds—one seen, one felt

For a true Japanese ghost story involving Kyoto’s Rokudō Chin’nō-ji Temple, see The Ghost Mother of Rokudō: A Kyoto Ghost Story.

Welcoming Guests from Beyond

Back at home, the family prepares the butsudan for the official welcome. Fresh flowers are arranged, incense is lit, favorite foods are offered, and ceremonial lanterns are placed where they can guide the spirits safely home. You might even see Nana’s favorite type of peaches on a small lacquer dish—simple gestures of omotenashi, the quiet hospitality Japanese families extend to honored guests who have traveled from afar to visit their homes.

Masaki’s home altar prepared to welcome ancestral spirits during Obon. — At home, Masaki prepares a small altar to welcome his ancestors back during Obon, arranging offerings and light to guide them safely.

Throughout the visit, the household altar becomes the focal point of remembrance, where generations separated by death are symbolically reunited beneath the same roof. Someone might tell one of Grandpa’s favorite fishing stories for what must be the hundredth time, and nobody complains. The children listen as if it were a beloved bedtime story.

In this way, memory becomes an inheritance, lovingly passed down from one generation to the next.

As evening falls, communities gather for bon odori. Beneath strings of lanterns, dancers circle a raised platform at the center of the grounds. Some move with the grace acquired with years of practice while the children fumble with the steps, laughing with joy at their own mistakes. Above them, the lanterns sway gently in the summer night.

Seeing Them Off Again

In the evening of August 16, the mood gently changes. Across Kyoto, enormous bonfires ignite on the surrounding mountains. The blazing characters of Gozan no Okuribi, better known as Daimonji, are more than dramatic spectacles. The bonfires signify farewell, illuminating the spirits’ journey back to the spiritual world after their brief respite.

The “Dai” bonfire of Gozan no Okuribi glowing on a Kyoto mountainside during the Obon send‑off. — One of Kyoto’s five *Gozan no Okuribi* fires, the “Dai” character burns brightly on the mountainside to guide ancestral spirits back at the end of Obon.

Along riverbanks and hillsides, conversations fade as the first flames appear against the darkness. Cameras are raised to capture the moment. Thousands of eyes turn toward the mountains.

Along the Ōi River in Arashiyama, floating lanterns drift quietly downstream. Their light flickers upon the water before gradually disappearing into the darkness, accompanying the ancestors on their voyage home until the following summer.

The farewell is poignant but not final. In Japan, it is customary to remain outside and watch a departing guest until they are no longer in sight. That same spirit of omotenashi shapes this moment: viewers wait until the last ember fades on the mountainside or the final lantern boat vanishes into the night, offering the ancestors the same courtesy and care they would extend to any honored guest leaving their home.

What Remains With Us

Floating paper lanterns glowing on the water at Arashiyama during an Obon remembrance event. — Lanterns float downstream at Arashiyama, gently guiding ancestral spirits back to the world beyond as Obon comes to an end.

The influence of these traditions extends far beyond the days in which they are observed. Bon odori transforms neighborhoods into places of reunion and celebration, and the rituals surrounding death become rituals of continuity, strengthening not only family ties but also the communities that have long sustained them.

That continuity is seen in a neighbor offering incense at a wake; a family selecting bones at the crematorium; a student sharing the results of an entrance examination with a photo of his grandfather; crowds waiting patiently to ring the welcoming bell at Rokudō Chin’nō‑ji; and the Gozan no Okuribi bonfires lighting the path for the spirits to follow on their return trip home.

In Japan, profound emotions are more often conveyed through ritual and fellowship than through words. Gratitude, sorrow, regret, and remembrance find expression in the lighting of incense, the gathering of families, and the social rituals involved in welcoming and saying goodbye to departed loved ones.

Every August, lanterns glow beneath the summer sky and Kyoto’s mountains blaze with farewell bonfires. Families gather, stories are retold, and ancestors return to the homes they never truly left.

Kampai to the Gods: Why Osaka’s Biggest Festival Feels Like a Block Party

Together, Tenjin Matsuri and Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri are two of Japan’s three great festivals. While both trace their origins to ancient rites meant to appease vengeful spirits, the manner in which they honor their respective deities is as different as the flavor of the dashi they use to season their food.

For those interested in Gion Matsuri, see my article entitled Gion Matsuri: Bridging Tradition and Modernity.

For example, at Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri, you get the impression that a deity, known as kami in Japanese, might roll its eyes derisively upon seeing beer and snacks being served to guests in premium seating during the Yamaboko procession, while at Tenjin Matsuri, you suspect the kami would give a nod of approval and a loud yell of “Kampai!”

Vendor grilling chicken gyoza at a festival stall during Tenjin Matsuri, with two visitors in yukata watching — A young couple in yukata pauses at a chicken *gyoza* stall for a quick, delicious snack during Tenjin Matsuri.

The difference stems from both geography and history. Kyoto is located inland, surrounded by mountains, and was home to the Imperial Court for over a millennium. During that time, the city strictly adhered to codes defining ceremony, etiquette, and social status. Downstream lay Osaka, a commercial port city welcoming anyone who had something to trade. Much of the cargo traded in Osaka’s markets—rice, seafood, sake, textiles—wound up on boats heading up the Yodo River (now called the Ōkawa River) to Kyoto.

In this way, the river became both a bridge and a dividing line between the country’s political capital and its economic engine.

“…the manner in which they worship their respective deities is as different as the flavor of dashi they use to season their food.”

Today, Tenjin Matsuri carries on the dynamic spirit of that bustling port city where merchants, traders, and working-class families have lived and conducted business beside their tutelary shrine for more than a thousand years.

Festival visitors gather beneath a decorated shrine gate during Tenjin Matsuri, with lanterns, a large chinowa ring, and priests visible inside the illuminated shrine. — As dusk fades into night, people gather at the shrine gate to catch a glimpse of the lively ceremonies going on inside.

For the people of Osaka’s Tenma district, Tenjin Matsuri is only one aspect of Osaka Tenmangū’s role in the local community. It is a neighbor, a guardian, and a familiar presence in everyday life. That relationship becomes even more apparent the moment you step beyond the shrine grounds.

Performers in traditional festival attire dance with colorful umbrellas during Tenjin Matsuri as spectators line the street at night. — Under the glow of a streetlight, dancers move toward the shrine with umbrellas in hand, carrying the rhythm and joy of Tenjin Matsuri into the night.

A Shrine Woven into the Neighborhood

Only a short walk away lies Tenjinbashisuji Shopping Street, the longest covered shopping arcade in Japan. Each morning, shopkeepers stop by the shrine before opening their stores. Students pause to pray before examinations. Office workers pass through the grounds on their way to the station. Families return for New Year’s prayers, christenings, weddings, and Shichi-Go-San celebrations.

Far from being separated from the neighborhood, Osaka Tenmangū is woven into it.

Crowds walk through Tenjinbashi Shopping Arcade, one of Japan’s longest shopping streets, on the approach to Osaka Tenmangu during Tenjin Matsuri. — Tenjinbashisuji Shopping Street becomes a lively pilgrimage during Tenjin Matsuri, guiding visitors toward Osaka Tenmangū Shrine.

Founded in 949, the shrine honors Sugawara no Michizane, a brilliant Heian-period scholar who was deified as Tenjin, the kami of learning. After falling victim to court intrigue, Michizane stopped at a small shrine on this exact spot on his way to exile in Kyushu, where he died two years later in poverty and despair. Soon after, disasters struck the imperial court—lightning blasted the palace, powerful rivals died unexpectedly, and plagues swept the capital.

Realizing they had angered a powerful spirit, the terrified court restored his honors to appease his spirit. It is one of the wildest transformations in Japanese history: a vengeful ghost gradually became the benevolent patron saint of students, merchants, and the neighborhood that grew up around him over the course of a thousand years.

For the people of Osaka, that affection has endured through both prosperity and devastation.

Front of Osaka Tenmangu Shrine with its wooden façade, lanterns, shimenawa, and sake barrels, showing the enduring craftsmanship of the historic structure. — Osaka Tenmangu’s wooden front, lined with lanterns and sake barrels, reflects the shrine’s long history and the community that has protected it.

During the air raids of 1945, parishioners fought to protect Osaka Tenmangū even as their own homes burned around them. A sign on the shrine grounds recalls how local residents struggled to save Tenjin-san from the flames. The shrine survived because the people of Tenma refused to abandon it.

Costumed performer representing Tenjin, the deity once associated with thunder and later revered as the kami of learning, riding a white horse during Tenjin Matsuri. — Riding a white horse in his traditional guise, Tenjin embodies the festival’s deep history—from his origins as a thunder kami to his enduring role as the patron of scholarship.

When the Deity Hits the Streets (and the River)

For two days every July 24th and 25th, Osaka throws a loud, boisterous party for its beloved deity, and everyone is invited.

Tenjin Matsuri begins with solemn rituals within the shrine precincts before spilling into the streets. Priests, shrine maidens, drummers, musicians, and participants in historical costume accompany the mikoshi (portable shrine) carrying the divine spirit of Tenjin-san and its escort mikoshi through the city. The crowds line the route, not merely to watch the spectacle, but to accompany Tenjin-san through the streets that he has watched over for centuries.

Tenjin’s mikoshi, carried by festival participants just before being transferred to a boat for the river procession during Tenjin Matsuri. — The *mikoshi* carrying Tenjin’s spirit is lifted and prepared for transfer to the boat, marking the start of the river procession.

As evening falls, the two mikoshi are transferred to a waiting boat on the Ōkawa River. Lanterns shimmer across the water as brightly decorated vessels gather for the night’s river procession. Waiting patiently along the riverbanks for their arrival are groups of people sitting beneath the trees on blue plastic sheets, while food stalls fill the warm summer air with the aromas of grilled squid, yakitori, takoyaki, and festival sweets.

Crowds gather along the riverside during Tenjin Matsuri, waiting for the river procession and the fireworks that follow. — As the river grows quiet before nightfall, people settle along the bank—waiting for Tenjin’s procession to pass and for the first burst of fireworks to open the sky.

Business organizations entertain guests aboard viewing barges. Illuminated advertisements and company mascots glide past alongside the mikoshi. No one seems to find the juxtaposition unusual. After all, this is Osaka, where people greet each other with “Mōkarimakka?” (“Are you making money?”), which is met with “Bochi bochi denna” (“Just getting by.”).

Dragon boat rowers lead the river procession during Tenjin Matsuri, followed by the two mikoshi boats and a barge carrying participants down the Okawa — Rowers drive the dragon boat ahead of the mikoshi vessels, while a barge of participants follows—one of the most iconic scenes of Tenjin Matsuri’s river procession.

As the mikoshi floats by the crowd to its exalted position on the river, other barges follow. Then darkness settles over the water, fireworks begin to erupt above the illuminated boats. Along the waterfront stand businessmen in summer suits, young construction workers in their work clothes, young children sitting on a parent’s shoulders, university students dressed in brightly colored yukata, and lifelong residents of Tenma of all generations. For a few hours, they gaze upward in wonder at the mesmerizing display of exploding light, culminating in a finale of a near-deafening crescendo of sound and light.

Crowds watch the opening fireworks of Tenjin Matsuri, with bright bursts lighting the evening sky above the river. — As the river procession ends, the night begins to glow with fireworks, drawing the crowd’s eyes upward in one of Tenjin Matsuri’s most beloved moments.

Tenjin Matsuri is not simply a religious ceremony to express appreciation to a protective deity, nor is it a public event to entertain guests and bring a community closer with food and fireworks. It is all those things, but it also reminds us that the joy of humanity begins with being joyful in the company of our neighbors.

For all its grandeur, Tenjin Matsuri remains, at heart, a neighborhood festival. It is a thousand-year bond between the people of Tenma and the deity they have long regarded not as a distant god, but as their own Tenjin-san.

Gion Matsuri: Bridging Tradition and Modernity

As the colorful hydrangeas of the rainy season in June fade from memory, Kyoto transforms for the month of July. Paper lanterns hang beneath downtown awnings, massive yamaboko floats emerge from their storehouses, and the kon-chiki-kon rhythm of Gion-bayashi echoes through crowded sidewalks and covered shopping arcades.

These are the unmistakable signs that Gion Matsuri has begun.

To visitors, it may seem like a month of mysterious rituals and a massive block party culminating in a spectacular procession of towering floats weaving through Kyoto’s narrow streets. For those raised in Kyoto, however, it is an opportunity to pass down centuries-old traditions and beliefs while extending the spirit of omotenashi, Japanese hospitality, to visitors from near and far.

Traditional red and white lanterns hanging in Kyoto during Gion Matsuri, with modern buildings in the background. — Lanterns marking the arrival of Gion Matsuri—where centuries-old symbols glow against the backdrop of modern Kyoto.

The festival traces its origins to 869, when a devastating epidemic swept through the capital. People believed the plague had been unleashed by the anger of vengeful spirits (goryō). In response, the Imperial Court held a goryō-e, a purification rite in which sixty-six towering halberds (hoko), one for each province of Japan, were erected to attract and contain these malevolent spirits. Prayers were then offered to the deity Gozu Tennō, later identified with Susanoo-no-Mikoto, asking him to pacify these supernatural forces and protect the capital.

According to tradition, the epidemic subsided. The rite became an annual expression of gratitude for divine protection and a prayer for the continued blessings of the deities enshrined at Yasaka Shrine. For more than five centuries, it endured until the Ōnin War (1467 to 1477), when much of Kyoto was reduced to ashes in a decade of civil conflict.

The main gate of Yasaka Shrine in Kyoto, with visitors walking near the entrance and trees surrounding the shrine. — “The entrance to Yasaka Shrine—the spiritual heart of Gion Matsuri, where the festival’s ancient rituals begin and return

Five years after the war ended, Kyoto’s wealthy merchant and artisan class, known collectively as the machishū, looked upon a city left battered and exhausted. Rather than wait for the Imperial Court or military leaders to restore civic life, they petitioned to revive Gion Matsuri and committed their own wealth, labor, and organizational skills to rebuilding it.

As the festival grew, individual neighborhoods assumed responsibility for constructing, maintaining, and parading a single yamaboko float, creating a tradition of stewardship that has endured for more than five centuries. In doing so, the festival evolved from an exclusively religious observance into a civic celebration that strengthened neighborhood identity while preserving its sacred purpose.

A display of traditional art and artifacts arranged for public viewing during Yoiyama, including textiles, scrolls, and ceremonial items. — During *Yoiyama*, families open their homes to display the art and heirlooms passed down through generations—revealing the craftsmanship and devotion that sustain Gion Matsuri

That balance between faith and community still defines Gion Matsuri today. Throughout July, each neighborhood assumes responsibility for preserving traditions that have been handed down for generations while welcoming hundreds of thousands of visitors into the heart of Kyoto. It is this combination of devotion, civic pride, and hospitality that transforms Gion Matsuri from a festival into a living expression of Kyoto itself.

A group of maiko-san in daytime attire standing along a street, watching a float during the Yamaboko procession in Kyoto. — Maiko-san in their daytime attire pause along the street to watch the Yamaboko procession—an everyday moment where Kyoto’s living traditions meet the festival’s grand spectacle

A busy evening scene on Karasuma Street with food stalls, festival banners, and crowds of people during Gion Matsuri. — Karasuma Street on a summer evening, where food stalls and festival games draw young people into the lively rhythm of Gion Matsuri.

For many visitors, Gion Matsuri truly begins during the evenings of Yoiyama, the days leading up to the Yamaboko Junko procession. As the towering floats are assembled using centuries-old joinery techniques without a single nail, central Kyoto transforms into a lively festival district. Streets close to traffic, the sounds of Gion-bayashi drift through the air, lanterns illuminate the floats, and thousands of people dressed in a summer yukata stroll from one neighborhood to the next, enjoying food stalls, traditional performances, and an atmosphere that has defined the festival for generations.

A child sitting on an adult’s shoulders watching illuminated lanterns during Yoiyama, surrounded by a nighttime festival crowd. — Not all premium seating is expensive—on *Yoiyama* evenings, a child’s view from a parent’s shoulders becomes one of the festival’s most cherished vantage points

Behind the celebration lies an extraordinary community effort. Throughout the month, neighborhood associations, craftsmen, musicians, shrine parishioners, students, and countless volunteers devote their time to assembling floats, directing crowds, selling chimaki, performing festival music, and welcoming visitors from across Japan and around the world. Their quiet dedication embodies the spirit of omotenashi, transforming Gion Matsuri from a spectacular public celebration into a heartfelt invitation to experience Kyoto’s living traditions.

Participants in traditional attire guiding a float during the Yamaboko procession, with a man in modern clothing walking nearby. — Volunteers and community members guiding the Yamaboko procession—an everyday devotion that keeps Gion Matsuri alive in the heart of modern Kyoto

Although the Yamaboko Junko procession draws the largest crowds, it serves a deeper religious purpose. On the evening of July 17, the three mikoshi (portable shrines) depart Yasaka Shrine carrying the shrine’s tutelary deities, including Susanoo-no-Mikoto, into the parish neighborhoods of central Kyoto. For the next seven days, the deities are believed to reside among the people, blessing the city and protecting it from illness and misfortune.

A mikoshi being lifted and shaken by participants during Gion Matsuri, preparing to be carried through the city. — One of the mikoshi being lifted and shaken as it begins its journey into the city—carrying the shrine’s deities to dwell among Kyoto’s people until their return on the 24th.

On July 24, following the Ato Matsuri return procession of the remaining yamaboko floats, the three mikoshi make their solemn journey back to Yasaka Shrine. With the deities returned to their sanctuary, the spiritual cycle of Gion Matsuri comes full circle, concluding another year of prayers for purification, protection, and the well-being of Kyoto.

One of the festival’s most recognizable traditions is the sale of chimaki at the floats during Yoiyama. Unlike the edible rice dumpling of the same name, these woven talismans trace their origins to the legend of Susanoo-no-Mikoto, who, disguised as a poor traveler, was turned away by a wealthy household before finding shelter with a humble man named Somin Shōrai.

Unaware of his guest’s true identity, Shōrai welcomed him with what little he had. After revealing himself, Susanoo rewarded Shōrai’s generosity by protecting his family from a devastating plague. Today, hanging a new chimaki above the entrance of a home or business expresses the wish to stand among the descendants of Somin Shōrai while invoking protection against illness and misfortune.

A chimaki talisman hanging on a door, used during Gion Matsuri as a symbol of protection.

A chimaki hanging at my door—an annual reminder of the story of Somin Shōrai and the wish for protection and good health during Gion Matsuri

It hangs above the door to ward off all sorts of evil—excluding in‑laws—and is exchanged for a new one each July, with the old talisman taken back to the shrine for ritual burning.

More than a good-luck charm, the chimaki symbolizes a community’s determination to face the powerful forces of nature and the uncertainties of life through compassion, gratitude, and hospitality toward neighbors and strangers alike.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of Gion Matsuri is that preserving and taking pride in one’s heritage is not an obstacle to change, but rather a precursor to it. Every July, Gion Matsuri reminds us that while epidemics, wars, and even centuries may pass, compassion, gratitude, craftsmanship, and hospitality remain strong enough to carry a city forward into the future. In doing so, the festival continues to serve as a living bridge between Kyoto’s past and its future.

Aoi Matsuri: The Elegance of the Heian Court

Gion Matsuri: Tradition and Community

Jidai Matsuri: A Journey Through History

Keeping Kyoto’s Heritage Alive

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The Overtourism Everyone Forgets

Been There, Done It

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The Caveats

The Risks of AI-Assisted Translation

A New Skill Set for Translators

A Case Study: The Anniversary Book

Authority vs. Correctness

What AI Still Can’t Do

Reports of Death Greatly Exaggerated

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Preparing the Path Home

Calling the Spirits Home

Welcoming Guests from Beyond

Seeing Them Off Again

What Remains With Us

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A Shrine Woven into the Neighborhood

When the Deity Hits the Streets (and the River)

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