The Education We Don’t Talk About
My son came home with a perfect test score last week.
Kanji: 100.
Math drills: 100.
Reading comprehension: 95 (because he rushed the last answer).
I congratulated him, of course. Gave him a high-five, made his favorite tamagoyaki the next morning. He was proud. I was proud. We both knew how hard he worked.
And yet — later that night, when I asked him what he thought about the Tokyo governor election posters we’d seen on our walk home, he shrugged and said, “That’s adult stuff, right? We don’t learn about that in school.”
He wasn’t wrong.
In his Japanese public elementary school, the curriculum is packed: math, science, Japanese, social studies, music, P.E., moral education (道徳)… but not much about democracy. Not really.
They memorize how government is structured. They might draw the Diet building. They learn terms like “prime minister” and “constitution” — but not what those words mean for their daily lives. Not how to form an opinion. Not how to listen to another point of view. Not how to disagree respectfully.
And certainly not how to participate.
That realization hit me harder than any missed homework assignment.
Because I don’t just want to raise a child who can pass tests.
I want to raise someone who understands fairness.
Who questions power.
Who cares about the world outside his classroom window.
But Japan’s education system doesn’t really aim for that — at least, not explicitly.
It aims for harmony. For efficiency. For collective responsibility.
All good things — until they come at the cost of curiosity, critical thinking, and courage.
Growing up, I didn’t question it. Like most of my classmates, I was rewarded for memorizing the right answers and blending in. I didn’t even realize what we weren’t learning — how to vote, how to speak up, how to imagine a better system — until much later, when I became a mother and found myself trying to explain the concept of “freedom of speech” to a seven-year-old in a country where protest is still whispered about.
And here’s the thing: Japanese schools aren’t failing at civic education.
They’re just… avoiding it.
Softening it. Depoliticizing it. Treating it as background noise instead of the frame.
But I’ve decided that, in our home, we’ll do things differently.
We’ll talk about the “why,” not just the “what.”
We’ll read books that ask questions, not just give answers.
We’ll watch the news together, even if it leads to hard conversations.
We’ll practice seeing things from more than one angle — even when I secretly hope he’ll choose mine.
Because citizenship isn’t something you switch on at 20.
It’s something you build — slowly, daily — around the dinner table, in the car, during bedtime stories, and yes, sometimes while explaining what a constitution is over a bowl of miso soup.
Lessons from the Living Room
It started small.
One day, I left a picture book called “What Is a Vote?” on the coffee table. My son picked it up between Pokémon battles and homework sheets.
“Do we vote in Japan too?” he asked.
“We do,” I said. “In fact, there’s an election next weekend.”
He blinked. “Do you go?”
“I always go,” I said. “Want to come with me?”
That Sunday, he followed me to the polling station. The staff handed me the ballot with that polite, bureaucratic efficiency Japan is famous for. My son watched the quiet line of adults, the plain walls, the black pencil.
“Why is it so quiet?” he whispered.
I smiled. “Because here, we do our loudest work in silence.”
Afterwards, over lunch, we talked about why some people don’t vote, and what it means when they don’t. He asked if kids would ever get to vote. I told him: not yet — but that didn’t mean his voice didn’t matter.
From there, it snowballed.
We added a weekly “News Chat” during dinner — just one headline we read together and break down in our own words. Nothing too heavy. Topics like:
🗞 Why does Japan import so much food?
🗞 What’s happening with the oceans and plastic waste?
🗞 Why are there fewer kids in Japan every year?
Sometimes the questions led to simple answers. Other times, to more questions. Often, they led to books.
We now have a mini “democracy shelf” in our home:
- “こども六法” (Children’s Mini Legal Code) by Yuta Takahashi – beautifully explains Japanese laws in kid-friendly language.
- “The Little Book of Government” – an English book that breaks down different systems of government around the world.
- “地球のカケラをたいせつに” – a gentle introduction to sustainability and global responsibility.
We don’t treat these like school. There are no tests, no assignments. Just questions.
“Why do people have different opinions?”
“What’s the difference between a law and a rule?”
“Why do some people not like the prime minister?”
He once asked me, “Do teachers get in trouble if they talk about politics at school?”
I paused. “Not exactly. But they’re encouraged to be very careful. To stay neutral.”
“Why?”
“Because some people think school should be just about facts, not feelings or opinions.”
He thought about that, then said: “But facts and opinions live in the same world.”
Out of the mouths of babes, right?
Still, not everything goes smoothly.
Sometimes the conversations feel too big. Sometimes I worry I’m giving him answers before he’s ready to form his own. Sometimes I see his eyes glaze over when I get too deep into “the history of Article 9” at 7:45 AM.
But we keep going.
Because the goal isn’t to raise a future politician or lawyer. It’s to raise a human being who knows how to listen, to question, to empathize, and to act — even in small ways.
Like the time he noticed an elderly neighbor struggling with recycling rules and offered to help her sort bottles.
Like the time he drew a poster for Earth Day and taped it to our apartment elevator.
Like the time he asked me if “companies get to vote too,” and we ended up talking about lobbying and fairness.
These aren’t huge things. But they’re seeds.
And in a society where children are often told to obey, not to question, I think planting those seeds is revolutionary — even if it looks like nothing more than reading a picture book while slurping miso soup.
When the Outside World Doesn’t Match the Lessons at Home
It was during the end-of-term assembly when the first crack appeared.
My son came home unusually quiet, clutching his award certificate for “Good Behavior and Cooperation.”
“You got a prize,” I said, smiling.
He nodded, but didn’t look up.
After a while, he mumbled, “I didn’t say anything when the teacher said things I didn’t agree with. That’s why I got it.”
I blinked.
Apparently, during a class discussion about Japan’s role in the world, the teacher said something about how Japan “always avoids war” and “never gets involved in global problems.”
My son had wanted to raise his hand. He had just read about Japan’s peacekeeping missions. He had just watched a documentary with me about Okinawa and the ongoing presence of U.S. bases.
But he didn’t speak up.
Because he wasn’t sure if that was “okay.”
Because no one else did.
Because sometimes, knowing something and saying it out loud are miles apart — especially in a Japanese classroom.
And there it was.
The conflict I’d feared.
At home, we talk about questioning. At school, he learns to conform.
At home, we practice dialogue. At school, he’s rewarded for silence.
I don’t blame his teacher. I really don’t.
The Japanese education system is built on harmony — wa（和）— and harmony often means not rocking the boat. Teachers are overworked, under-supported, and expected to handle everything from moral education to disaster drills to student nutrition.
They teach what’s in the textbook. They teach what won’t offend.
And they teach that “neutral” is best.
But in that neutrality, something important gets lost:
The right — and the courage — to think differently.
That week, I brought it up casually with a fellow mom at the park.
“Do you ever feel like school doesn’t really teach kids how to think for themselves?” I asked.
She smiled tightly. “Well, that’s not really the point of elementary school, is it? We’re supposed to teach that at home.”
“But what if what we teach at home doesn’t match what they hear at school?”
She laughed, but her voice was clipped. “Then maybe we’re making it too complicated.”
I didn’t push. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Are we making it too complicated — or are we just making it honest?
Because the world is complicated.
Climate change is complicated. Gender rights are complicated. Political apathy is complicated.
And kids aren’t blind to this. They see the news. They hear the whispers. They ask questions.
At some point, we have to decide: do we prepare them for standardized tests, or for real life?
My son’s next moral education lesson was about kansha — gratitude. A beautiful concept, and deeply Japanese. Be grateful for what you have. Respect those who help you.
But when he told me the teacher said, “We should not complain when life is hard — just be thankful,” I felt a chill.
Gratitude should never be used to silence people.
Gratitude should never be a substitute for justice.
So we talked about that. Over dinner, again.
We talked about how you can be grateful and still want things to change.
How you can respect rules and still question them.
How sometimes, being a good citizen means standing apart — not blending in.
But I’d be lying if I said it was easy.
There’s always a tiny fear in the back of my mind:
Am I setting him up to be “that kid”?
The one who asks too many questions.
The one teachers secretly find exhausting.
The one other parents think is “difficult.”
In a society that prizes smoothness and cohesion, raising a child who thinks critically can feel like handing him a sword in a room full of paper walls.
But then I remind myself:
He doesn’t have to use the sword.
He just has to know it’s there.
That he has a voice.
That disagreement isn’t disrespect.
That silence, while often polite, is not always right.
Teaching the Unwritten Lessons
One night, my son asked, “Mom, do you ever wish I didn’t ask so many questions?”
It was late. He should have been asleep. But we were still tangled up in one of our long, winding conversations — this time about how rules are made, and whether “fairness” always feels fair to everyone.
I smiled. “No. I love your questions. Even the hard ones.”
He looked relieved. Then he whispered, “Sometimes I feel weird for asking them.”
And there it was — the weight of being “different” in a culture that so gently, so silently, encourages sameness.
Not by force.
But by absence.
By what’s not taught.
By what’s not said.
In that moment, I understood something I hadn’t been able to articulate before:
I don’t teach him these things because I think the system is broken.
I teach them because I want him to feel whole.
I want him to grow up knowing that knowledge is more than facts.
That citizenship is more than voting.
That education is more than memorizing what’s safe to say.
And I want him to know that when something feels wrong — even if no one else seems to notice — he has the right to question it.
To name it.
To imagine something better.
That doesn’t mean I expect him to fight every battle. Or argue with every teacher. Or become the loudest kid in the room.
It just means I want him to know the room is his, too.
That he belongs in the conversation.
Even if his voice shakes.
And if the school doesn’t teach that, I will.
I’ll do it with books and messy dinner table chats.
I’ll do it through news clips and long walks and bedtime stories that end in “What do you think?”
I’ll do it imperfectly.
But I’ll do it.
Because I don’t want to raise a student who just passes.
I want to raise a citizen who participates.
And maybe that’s the quiet revolution of parenting in Japan today.
Not shouting in the streets.
Not flipping the table.
But gently, patiently, persistently — bringing things to it.
One question at a time.
One child at a time.
One dinner at a time.
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