Short Novel : Divisions Among the Japanese in an International School Setting

 

The morning sky was heavy with grey clouds, the kind that pressed low over the city and whispered of snow yet to fall. It was one of those bitter January days when the air seemed to nip at your skin even through the thickest coat. As I drew back the curtains, the faintest blush of sunrise struggled to light the horizon, promising little comfort.

It was 1986, the heart of the Showa era back in Japan, but here in London, the year had dawned with the same bleak winter mornings the city was known for. I forced myself out of my warm bed, the comfort of the covers reluctantly traded for the routine of getting ready. Breakfast was quick, a silent ritual shared with my mother before I gathered my essentials: a pencil case, a small notebook, my wallet, and the lunch my mother had lovingly packed.

"Off I go," I called as I slipped on my thick, black coat, its padding a small defence against the cold.

"Take care," my mother replied.

I nodded, stepping out into the frosty air.

Today was my first day at the language school, and as I walked the ten minutes to the station, my breath formed little clouds in the icy morning. The station, though modest, offered a brief reprieve from the chill once I descended inside. With my newly purchased travel card, I passed through the turnstile and stepped onto the escalator that would carry me down, deep into the bowels of the city.

The Underground had always fascinated me, with its cavernous platforms and tunnels steeped in history. During the Second World War, they’d served as bomb shelters. As I stood on the escalator, my impatience got the better of me, and I hurried down the walking side, my footsteps echoing in the long descent.

London was a melting pot of people and cultures, its diversity unlike anything I’d ever encountered. This was a city that had thrived as an imperial hub, ruling over colonies scattered across the globe. In the post-war years, waves of immigrants had arrived to rebuild and revitalise. Many of their descendants now called London home, their lives woven into the city’s fabric over generations. On the streets, in the Underground, and along my route to school, the faces I passed told countless stories—so varied that it was impossible to categorise people by appearance alone.

I was headed to an international school with a "Language Unit" designed to help students like me. Those of us not yet confident in English began here, slowly transitioning to the main curriculum once we could keep up. The process was straightforward: start with maths or PE, subjects less reliant on language, and gradually move to more challenging classes.

After a few stops on the train, I emerged from the depths of the platform into the crisp air above. The street was still waking up, but the sign for a stationer’s shop stood as my landmark. Beneath it hung a smaller sign: “Language School.”

The building was unassuming. I opened the door, which creaked slightly, and climbed a narrow spiral staircase. At the top, a second door revealed a surprisingly bright hallway, its walls painted pristine white and its floor lined with thin, cheerful orange carpet. To my right was what appeared to be a small cafeteria.

I’d arrived early—too early, perhaps. The corridor was empty, save for the quiet hum of a building just beginning its day. Curious about my new classroom, I moved towards the door and tried to peer through the small window.

“Hello! Are you the new student?”

The voice startled me, warm and inviting. Turning, I saw a kind-faced woman with dark, curly hair standing behind me. She appeared to be in her fifties, her smile lined with years of patience and understanding.

“Yes,” I replied nervously.

“Come along to the staff room and make yourself comfortable,” she said. “You are Mayumi, right?”

I nodded.

“The lesson starts at 9:30,” she continued. “You’ve got a few minutes yet. I’ll show you to the class once everything is ready.”

With a gentle wave, she guided me into the staff room. Her calm presence felt reassuring, a small anchor on this first uncertain step into a world so far from home.

Before long, a loud clatter of footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by an endless stream of chatter. The sound grew nearer, and as a group of students passed by the staff room, they called out in cheerful voices.

“Morning, Mrs. Pat!”“How are you today?”

Their energy filled the otherwise quiet hallway, and they disappeared into the classroom I’d tried to peek into earlier. The group was a mix of boys and girls, tall and short, their varying heights making them seem even more dynamic.

When the time came, Mrs. Pat escorted me to the classroom. She opened the door, and I stepped inside. The students were already seated, their desks arranged in a large circle, and I quickly realised that the ages varied significantly. Some of the students were barely twelve, their faces still round with childhood, while others, like me, were in their early teens.

A seat was indicated, and I slid into it just as the bell rang. Moments later, the teacher arrived—a poised woman with a warm smile and an air of command. She moved to the whiteboard-side of the circle and settled into her chair.

“So, you are Mayumi, then?” she said, her accent clipped and clear.

“Yes,” I replied softly.

“Could you introduce yourself to the class, please?” she asked, her voice kind yet expectant.

My heart sank. Introduce myself? Out loud? The very idea made my throat tighten. In Japan, English lessons were confined to reading and writing; speaking had been an afterthought. Panic rose as I stumbled over my words, mumbling awkward fragments that refused to form coherent sentences.

The teacher, whose name I’d learned was Emilie, tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes softening.

“Mayumi,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through my flustered thoughts. “While you’re in this class, do not worry about pronunciation. I’ve taught Japanese students before, and I know how much they focus on getting it perfect. You don’t need to. Just speak up. I will try and understand you.”

Her words landed with unexpected force. I will try and understand you.

In Japan, such an approach would have been unimaginable. Teachers didn’t adapt to their students; students struggled to meet the teacher’s expectations. And if they didn’t? Well, the consequences weren’t always verbal.

Memories of my middle school English classes surfaced. Some of the teachers from the JET programme—American instructors, sent for their University degree—had taken their role as a challenge rather than a calling. They were judged by their students’ performance, and that pressure had bred resentment. Pronounce something wrong, and they’d pinch through your uniform, leaving a bruise no one could see. They didn’t teach English so much as wield it like a weapon.

But Emilie wasn’t like them. Her reassurance felt like a revelation. She would try to meet me where I was.

Encouraged, I found the courage to speak. Slowly and haltingly, I shared a little about myself. My name, of course. That I’d lived near the mountains back home in Japan. That I had an older brother. That this was my first time in England, and even more daunting, my first time on an aeroplane.

My words might have been broken, my sentences rough, but Emilie listened attentively, nodding and smiling at all the right moments. For the first time, I felt I was being heard, not judged. And that small victory, however modest, made the classroom feel a little less daunting.

My classmates were all so friendly, and within moments, they made me feel like part of the group. They were mostly from the Middle East, though there were also students from Japan, Angola in Africa, Indonesia, and Brazil. Their faces still held a hint of youth, a mix of curiosity and eagerness, and they all seemed to have an open, welcoming nature.

“You said you’re from Japan? I’m from Iran,” the girl sitting next to me said, flashing me a bright smile.

“Iran?” I echoed, a little surprised.

“That’s right, Iran. Iranian people love Japan, you know,” she said, leaning forward a little.

“Why?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because of Oshin!” she replied, grinning.

At this, the group burst into laughter.

“You know, Oshin stopped the Iran-Iraq war!” one of the others piped up.

“Joke?” I asked, unsure if they were messing around.

“No, I’m not joking,” she said, her tone completely serious. “When Oshin was on TV, everyone stopped fighting. Even the soldiers! The war just paused, and for a moment, we had peace – at least twice a day, no missiles flying overhead!”

I was taken aback. Oshin? The Japanese drama I used to watch as a child? I’d heard it was famous abroad, but never did I imagine I’d hear it mentioned in a classroom in London.

The girls were called Niloofar and Abba. Both were tremendously friendly.

During break times and lunch, I often spent time with my classmates. It was then that I noticed something curious.

The students from Iran always spoke in English, even during breaks. Only when I stepped away did they occasionally switch to their native language. But as soon as I, or one of the Portuguese-speaking students, returned, they seamlessly shifted back to English.

I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me.

If they’d continued speaking in Persian while I was there, I’d have been completely lost, left out of the conversation without a clue. But they didn’t. They chose to adapt, to include. Even when speaking among themselves, if someone who didn’t understand their language was nearby, they would speak in English instead.

It was such a simple act, yet it carried immense kindness—a silent gesture of respect that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be felt.

The youngest in the class was twelve, and the lessons moved at a pace that was comfortable for all of us. The vocabulary we were learning was all practical – the kind of words you’d use in everyday life. Occasionally, we’d have a “self-expression” class, where the teacher would lead us in voice exercises, enunciating each word clearly and practising tongue twisters. It felt like a game, but it was also educational, helping us build our confidence in speaking.

By the end of the day, after soaking in English for hours, I started to feel a slight fever coming on. It was probably what they called a “learning fever” – the kind of tiredness that hits after your brain works overtime.

The week passed in a blur of grammar, discussions, and report writing. It seemed there were no specific classes just for conversation – everything was done through discussions, or debates where the aim was to speak up and contribute as much as possible.

Whenever there was a word we didn’t understand, everyone would help each other figure it out together. If someone couldn’t express themselves clearly, we’d patiently wait until the right words came to them. It felt like we were all in it together.

Among the school staff, there was a man named Mark, who was married to a Japanese woman. He was the school bus driver, and he’d take special care to check in on me. If I didn’t understand something, he would even call his home and ask his wife for clarification, passing on me the meaning of the word. I appreciated it deeply, though I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for taking up his family time. I wanted to manage on my own. I wanted to get better, to not have to rely on others so much.

Midway through the term, a few more Japanese students joined the Language Unit.

It was the height of the 1980s bubble economy. Japanese companies were expanding overseas at an unprecedented rate, bringing along families to settle in new countries. Each year, more Japanese households arrived in this city, and many of their children found their way into the Language Unit.

The students were a mixed bunch—primary school kids, teenagers, and even siblings who attended together. Most of them were here for a brief adjustment period, a stepping stone before enrolling in local schools.

Though we weren’t all in the same classes, the bonds we formed crossed any boundaries. During breaks, we’d play together, mingling with children from other countries, our laughter blending into a universal language of its own. If one of us struggled with communicating with a teacher or felt lost, we’d rally around to help, translating, explaining, or just being there.

There was a comforting solidarity in our little group, a shared understanding of what it felt like to be between worlds. When some of the Japanese children moved on to local schools after a couple of months, the farewells felt oddly heavy for such short-lived friendships. But that was the nature of these encounters—brief, yet deeply affecting.

There was one girl who, like me, would stay for the full course. Her name was Yumi, and she was a first-year junior high student. She was the same age as me, but she had the kind of bright personality that made her stand out. Despite her lack of confidence in her English, she was always eager to interact with other students from different countries. Even though we were in different grades, we’d keep in touch after class, checking in on each other after school and maintaining a little connection.

Yumi was a stickler for politeness. Every morning, she’d greet me at the entrance of my classroom with a bright, “Good morning, Mayumi-chan!” in Japanese and I’d return the greeting, “Ohayou!” 

My classmates were all so keen to absorb as many foreign words as they could. Before I knew it, a few of them had picked up the Japanese “Ohayou!” and would greet me with it every morning. In turn, I started picking up some of their greetings. The Iranian students, for example, greeted me with “Salam!”

One morning, an Iranian boy, who was always friendly, turned to me and said, “Mayumi, Ohayou!”

I was so pleased that I replied, “Wow, Kamir! Salam!” The Japanese and Iranian kids around us laughed and looked on with amusement.

It seemed like the teachers didn’t mind us picking up words from languages other than English. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for students at language schools to pick up bits and pieces of other languages along the way.

Life at the language school lasted five months, and in September, I was scheduled to move to the full course of study.

By that time, I’d already started attending some of the non-language-focused subjects, like maths and physical education, alongside the students in the main programme. I’d met a few of the other students already, so when it came time to switch classes, it felt like a smooth transition.

The main course was far more intense.

It wasn’t just the lessons – it was the fact that I couldn’t understand what my classmates were saying during breaks. I could keep up with the lessons well enough, but during lunch or after school, I couldn’t make out half of what anyone was saying.

The main building was separate from the language unit, so we would travel between the two via school bus. The bus drivers were Mark, the British man with a Japanese wife, and Joseph, a Jamaican who had dreams of pursuing a music career. They were both incredibly friendly and would make the ride to and from school an enjoyable experience, telling us fun stories and sharing laughs.

London’s status as a multicultural city meant that the school was full of students from all over the world. Yet, there were always a few who couldn’t handle being in a mixed-race environment and left the school fairly quickly.

In our fourth year, you could say that almost every race and nationality was represented. We had students from Africa, the Middle East, Europe, India, Southeast Asia, and the Far East, including Japan and China. The idea of avoiding someone just because of their race didn’t exist – the only reason people didn’t get along was if their personalities didn’t click.

There was one Japanese boy who didn’t interact with me at all. He completely ignored me and never spoke a word. Our classes were different, so there was no reason for us to cross paths.

The school was small, but our grade alone had about twenty students – a big group compared to the rest.

The Language Unit’s classroom was located near the science classrooms, just off the regular teaching block. One morning, as I was making my way to my first lesson – chemistry – I was suddenly interrupted.

"Hey, Japanese?"

I stopped in my tracks, thinking I'd heard the language I knew so well, and nodded with a simple "Yes."

Then came the question, "Where’s the language unit?"

Ah, right. It must be the first day for the Language Unit, I thought, so I quickly gave directions to the staff room where the teacher would be.

"Thanks," came the blunt reply, before the person turned and walked off.

What was that all about? That abruptness took me by surprise. I stood there for a moment, confused. But then, the bell rang, and the start of my first class was imminent. I hastily turned and ran toward the classroom, my mind still buzzing with that strange encounter.

Her hair was striking — neatly curled bangs, the rest of it straight and flowing down to her back. And she was wearing a stiff, navy-blue suit, which was unusual since most of the school was in casual clothes. It was an odd sight, especially with her distinctive curls. I remember thinking that she stood out, though in a way I couldn’t quite place.

Time passed, and after the first term exams and following the Christmas party and a short winter break, another Japanese student arrived in our class.

Her name was Kaoru. She was the girl I had met briefly in the Language Unit few month earlier. Back in Japan, she had been a first-year high school student before deciding to leave her school and transfer here. When she arrived, I recognised the same neatly curled front bangs and the same stiff navy suit she had worn before. Apparently, her English level was high enough to skip ahead from the Language Unit to the main programme.

On her first day, I greeted her in the hallway.

"Hi! We met before in the Language Unit. Do you remember me?"

She looked at me with an unmistakably annoyed expression and replied coldly,

"I don’t associate with Japanese people."

I couldn’t say what had happened over those six months. Something must have changed, but I was left guessing.

It was painfully clear she wanted nothing to do with the Japanese. Even when we found ourselves in the same class, there were no greetings, no eye contact—just a studied avoidance, as if acknowledging me would be too much.

It stung, of course. That unspoken wall between us felt heavier than words ever could.

I wasn’t sure what had happened in the months since we’d last met, but her coldness was clear. Even when we ended up in the same class, she wouldn’t greet anyone, and she would go out of her way to avoid eye contact with anyone, including me.

It was weird.

I thought maybe she didn’t want to speak Japanese. Maybe if I spoke to her in English, she’d warm up. So, I decided to try and pull her into our class conversations. She always sat alone in the corner of the classroom, so I would try to get her involved with the other students.

But that didn’t work either. She didn’t approach anyone, not just the Japanese students. In fact, she seemed determined to keep her distance from everyone, which bothered Parol, an Indian girl who had taken a particular interest in her.

"Why does she keep distance from us?" Parol asked one day, clearly concerned.

"Maybe you should go ask her," Maureen suggested, trying to make sense of the situation.

So, Parol went over to Kaoru’s corner and began speaking to her. Before long, he waved me over, calling, "Mayumi!"

Curious, I walked over, and Parol asked, "Can you translate?"

"I don’t think she needs translation. What did you say to her?" I asked, feeling a little confused.

"I asked her why she didn’t reply to us," Parol said.

At that moment, I decided to step in and speak to Kaoru myself.

"Why didn’t you say anything when we greeted you, Kaoru?"

Kaoru didn’t respond.

"We called your name, Kaoru. Didn’t you hear us?"

"Mai neimu (My name)?" Kaoru said, her tone puzzled.

"Yes! We called your name!" I repeated.

And then, for the first time, Kaoru spoke, but in Japanese.

"What name were you calling?"

"Yes! We’ve been calling you 'Kaoru'. It might sound like 'Kyaoru' in English, but that’s how your name sounds in English," I explained.

It was then that I realised — she hadn’t understood the English pronunciation of her name. It was all starting to make sense now.

There was something so strangely heartbreaking about it. Kaoru had been sitting there, all along, feeling like an outsider because she didn’t even recognise her own name when it was said in English.

From that point on, whenever Kaoru was talking to her friends, she would always ask me in Japanese, "Do you really understand what they're saying?"

It became a problem. We were having conversations in English, among classmates who weren’t native English speakers, and to suddenly switch to Japanese was, frankly, rude. The others couldn’t follow the conversation.

Kaoru, despite saying she didn’t want to associate with Japanese people, quickly began asking me for the meanings of words in Japanese whenever she didn’t understand. The rest of the class, who didn’t speak Japanese, were left out. And even when I answered her, she didn’t even offer a simple "thank you."

She was happy to keep her distance from the Japanese, but when it came to not understanding a word, it was fine to ask me in Japanese. She didn’t budge on that.

I began to feel uncomfortable being used as her personal dictionary, and so I decided to answer all her questions in English from then on.

But that didn’t work.

When it’s just two Japanese students, it’s difficult to keep the conversation in English. Even if there are non-Japanese people around, it’s all too common for someone to suddenly switch to Japanese without saying, "Is it okay if we speak Japanese for a moment?" It was something I’d done before, but as the questions kept coming, it became exhausting.

Sometimes, the teacher would instruct Kaoru and me to sit together during lessons, "since she’s just joined the class."

When Kaoru joined biology class for the first time, the teacher asked me to sit next to her and help out. I thought it would be fine, assuming that Kaoru would concentrate and listen attentively, especially since it was her first lesson.

However, during the lesson, when the teacher was explaining something, Kaoru would constantly ask, "Hey, do you really understand what the teacher is saying?" at the most critical moments. If it had been a technical term she didn’t understand, I might have understood. But her words seemed to imply she wasn’t grasping anything the teacher said at all.

I, too, needed to focus on what the teacher was saying in order to keep up with the lesson. If she kept interrupting me, I wouldn’t be able to hear the teacher properly. I had no choice but to ask her, kindly but firmly, to remain quiet.

It wasn’t just in class. Whenever I used a word that Kaoru didn’t know, she’d ask, "Why do you know that word?" and "How do you know that word?" — in Japanese.

It confused me.

In the end, I still couldn’t understand what Kaoru really meant by not wanting to get involved with other Japanese people. She wouldn’t chat with me, but when a word she didn’t know came up, instead of trying to figure it out on her own, she’d ask me — in Japanese. If she’d asked me the meaning in English, I would have understood. But no, her questions were always in Japanese.

It didn’t matter whether it was during class or at break; whenever there was a word she didn’t understand, she would come to me, asking in Japanese. This happened so often that I felt like I was being used as a Japanese-English dictionary.

If she truly didn’t want to have anything to do with Japanese people, why didn’t she just figure things out on her own? I didn’t feel any sense of independence from her. I was starting to get fed up with being treated like a convenient dictionary, and I also felt it was unfair to the other students who didn’t understand Japanese. It was a situation that left me feeling discontent for days on end.

One day, during a biology class review, the teacher called on me to explain photosynthesis.

“Photosynthesis is a process of converting light energy into chemical energy through respiration. The plants have stomata on the back of their leaves, and they inhale carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen.”

I had reviewed the topic, so I understood that carbon dioxide and oxygen were needed for respiration in photosynthesis. I tried to explain it in my broken English, and the teacher nodded, saying, “That’s correct.”

From the back of the classroom, I heard Kaoru’s voice.

“What’s inhale?”

Everyone in the class turned to look at me, waiting for me to translate.

There were only two Japanese students in the class, and this was a question during a lesson in English, so I answered in English.

“It means to breathe in the air.”

But Kaoru wasn’t finished. She asked another question.

“What about the other one? Ex nantoka?”

“Ex WHAT??” I blurted out.

I couldn’t believe it. "Nantoka" – how was anyone supposed to understand that? If she used words like "Nantoka - meaning "something" in Japanese, the non-Japanese students would have no clue what we were talking about.

At this point, a few of my classmates started to mutter.

“This isn’t the Language Unit. You shouldn’t be asking questions like that.”“Didn’t you revise the lesson at all?”

Then Kaoru made her remark.

“Parol and Reza said her English isn’t good, and I agree with them. I think she’s speaking wrong.”

I was taken aback. It seemed a few of my classmates had been discussing my English. They were pointing out that my English wasn’t perfect and, by doing so, were trying to prove that I had said something wrong. They were even picking on words like "inhale" and "exhale", as if they were some sort of biological technicalities that I hadn’t used correctly.

I didn’t speak perfect English, but I was doing my best to keep up with the class, no matter what. That was the only thing that mattered to me. So I couldn’t understand why Kaoru was so fixated on proving me wrong. More than that, her attitude — zeroing in on a single English word to criticise me — felt off. This was a biology class, not a language unit.

I decided to turn the tables and asked Parol, who seemed to have made the comment about my English.

“So, Parol, how would you explain photosynthesis and respiration? Your English is good, right? You should be able to explain it, shouldn’t you?”

Parol looked down at his desk, avoiding my gaze. After a long pause, she mumbled, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

I turned to Reza, the other student who had supposedly commented on my English.

“How about you, Reza? According to Kaoru, your English is good. I’m sure you can explain photosynthesis and respiration?”

Reza also looked down, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Neither of them could answer. So I looked back at Kaoru.

“And Kaoru? I know you’re asking about ‘inhale’ and ‘exhale’, but how would you describe photosynthesis and respiration in your own words? I’d really like to hear how you would explain it, since perhaps my explanation was wrong.”

Kaoru stayed silent, still looking down, not even attempting to answer. As expected, there was no “I’m sorry” from her.

It was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and I couldn’t help but feel that Kaoru’s behaviour was out of place.

Kaoru continued to keep to herself, maintaining her solitary stance. There were other Japanese students at the school, including Yumi and a few others, but they were in different year groups, so we couldn’t spend too much time together. Still, everyone got along well, and when it came to communication with the teachers, we would help each other when necessary. Kaoru, however, had nothing to do with this group. She stayed away.

However, the incident in biology, where I had confronted Kaoru, spread among the school staff. It wasn’t long before Mark, the driver, started to distance himself from me. Apparently, he helped me while I was at Language Unit, but now, he seemed to think I wasn’t willing to help the other Japanese students.

A few days later, Kaoru said something that I just couldn’t come to terms with.

It seemed she was planning to leave the school and go somewhere else.

“Are you leaving this school?” I asked, and the response I received left me speechless.

“If I’m in England, I’d rather be with white people,” she said flatly.

Hearing those words sent a cold shiver down my spine.

The friends she spent most of her time with weren’t exactly white. They were from the Middle East or India, and by no means could they be classified as ‘white’.

So, Kaoru, who seemed to get along with those students, now declared that she wanted to be with white people. To me, she suddenly seemed like a hypocrite. She’d pretend to be friendly with her Middle Eastern and Indian classmates, yet deep down, she desired to be accepted by white people.

In the school, there was indeed some subtle racism. Children who weren’t used to interacting with other races would say things or do things without realising the impact, often without any malice. I had been a target myself, but living in a foreign country for a while had taught me to grow accustomed to it. You learn to ignore the small things and pick up on the ways to avoid facing discrimination.

When I had faced some mild racism at school, the teachers and Joseph, the driver, had noticed and were concerned. They listened to my concerns, and I explained that I had heard worse things on the underground, and it didn’t bother me much anymore.

But the conversation didn’t end there. They asked why we, as Japanese students, didn’t stick together. Everyone, including the teachers, seemed worried that we weren’t helping each other out.

I told them that Kaoru had said she didn’t want to get involved with other Japanese students, though I wasn’t sure if they’d believe me. I also mentioned that Kaoru had made a racially charged statement about wanting to be with white people, which was another reason she didn’t want to interact with us.

After that, Kaoru began only talking to the white students in the class.

Parol, the Indian girl who had admired Kaoru, was clearly confused and couldn’t hide her bewilderment.

It seemed the British and European white students who had spoken to Kaoru also understood the racially charged implications of her actions. From what I gathered, they ended up teasing her a little. I didn’t know the full details, but some of them had said things like:

“You don’t have to care about her. She wouldn’t say that she wants to be with whites anymore.”

It sounded like they had said something truly hurtful.

A chilly day arrived not long after, and I wore a black cap with a brim that my family had given me when I headed to school. I figured there was no issue wearing it, as long as I didn’t have it on in the classroom.

That morning, as I walked to school, a few older gentlemen I passed called out to me. “Has Ascot started yet?” one of them asked, and then another. More than one person had said it, and I wondered if they were talking about the Ascot horse races.

It wasn’t even spring yet, and the weather was still cold, so I didn’t quite understand why they were asking me about Ascot. And more puzzling still, why did they assume I had anything to do with it?

Suddenly, the word “punter” popped into my mind. I had heard it on a radio show once, where they talked about betting on horses. The only thing unusual about me that day was the hat I was wearing. Maybe they thought I looked like a punter because of it?

Feeling uneasy, I decided to ask my teacher after school.

“You know, some people called out this morning, saying, ‘Has Ascot started yet?’ Do I look like someone who bets?” I asked.

The teacher smiled kindly and said, “Yes, you do look like a punter.”

I couldn’t help but blurt out, “Do I look like a punter!? Like a man who bets on horses!?”

The teacher laughed and explained, “It’s because of your hat. At Ascot, people wear hats, and especially women wear brimmed ones like yours.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me. So it wasn’t that I looked like a gambler, but rather that my hat made me resemble one of the spectators at Ascot, the women who went there to enjoy the races.

As I was having this conversation with the teacher, Niloofar and Abba, who I had known since our days in the Language Unit, overheard and asked, “What’s a punter?”

Without thinking, I replied, “Punters are the geezers who bet on horses.”

The two of them blinked in confusion. “What’s a geezer?”

I froze. Geezer was slang for “man,” specifically an adult male, and often had a rough, somewhat crude connotation. It wasn’t the most refined word, and given that Niloofar and Abba were both only twelve, I wasn’t sure I should be teaching them such language.

Still, they asked me to spell “geezer” and “punter,” and I had no choice but to do so. But I couldn’t help but feel uneasy about it.

“Please don’t use these words in front of your mum and dad,” I said, writing them down. “They might get worried about what kind of language they’re teaching you at school.”

Just then, Kaoru, who had been listening in, asked Niloofar, “What’s a punter?”

Niloofar, looking a little unsure, answered, “Someone who bets on horses.”

Kaoru, in her usual blunt way, replied, “Why does she know that word?”

“I don’t know. Ask her,” Niloofar said, shrugging.

Kaoru didn’t ask me directly, though. She had probably figured out by now that I would only reply in English.

The question of why I knew certain words, especially words like that, began to bother me. It felt like a question that had no real purpose, and I couldn’t stand the way Kaoru always seemed to look at me with judgement.

From then on, whenever Kaoru asked me the meaning of a word in Japanese, I would hand her a dictionary. I wanted her to figure things out on her own. I was frustrated by how little she seemed to make an effort, and I had to admit, I was starting to feel the weight of her scrutiny more and more.

One day, as I was gathering my things to leave after class, the teacher called me over. I followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at Kaoru.

“I’m talking to her about something a bit complicated. Could you translate?” the teacher asked me.

I shook my head. Kaoru had made it clear she didn’t want to get involved with other Japanese students, and if she was facing something difficult, it was up to her to sort it out. I wasn’t going to step in.

“She’s in trouble. Kaoru is in trouble,” the teacher insisted, pressing me.

In the Christian world, the idea of helping someone in trouble is a bit more complicated. There’s a strong belief in “offering a helping hand to those in need.” If you don’t help, it’s not just seen as stingy—it’s as though you’re being marked as a cruel, inconsiderate person with no sense of decency.

Even with that pressure, I still refused.

I didn’t want to offer my help to someone who had trouble forming good relationships in the first place, let alone someone who openly rejected their fellow Japanese students. There was no hand to offer.

“I think this is where she should become independent. She should deal with it by herself,” I said firmly before walking away.

Later, Ali, the Iranian classmate who had witnessed the whole exchange, approached me. “I think I’ll follow your example,” he said.

“What example?” I asked, puzzled.

“Not translating every word I’m asked,” he replied.

Ali had been in the UK for years and spoke perfect English. He was even in a class that studied Shakespeare, and he’d often been asked to translate words for his classmates from his country. Each time, he’d politely say, “Sorry, may I use Persian? I need to explain this word,” and get the teacher’s permission. I admired his helpfulness, though I couldn’t help but feel it must be exhausting for him.

“It’s better to let them be independent,” Ali continued. “They should wipe their own arses.”

The next day, as I stepped outside the school after class, I saw Mark, the driver, standing near the entrance. It had been so long since I’d seen him that I automatically stretched out my hand for a handshake.

“Hello! How are you?” I asked with a smile.

Mark hesitated for a moment but then returned the handshake with a polite smile.

“So, you still haven’t got on well with the Japanese girl?” he asked, his voice casual.

I frowned, confused by his question, and followed his gaze. Kaoru was standing just behind me.

“Well, she said she doesn’t want to be with Japanese people, so we keep a comfortable distance from each other,” I replied, unsure of what else to say.

Mark raised an eyebrow. “To me, it looks like she’s following you.”

“Really? I didn’t notice,” I replied, glancing back. Kaoru seemed to be walking aimlessly near the school building, not really paying attention to us.

Mark’s expression softened. “Why didn’t you help her when she needed it?”

I sighed, trying to explain. “It’s hard to say. She’s been rejecting Japanese students from the start, but when she needed something, she used me as a dictionary. I thought maybe she just didn’t want to speak Japanese, so I replied to her in English. Does that make sense?”

Mark nodded quietly, though I couldn’t tell if he fully understood. He had been working at the school for a long time and had seen many students come and go. He’d probably witnessed plenty of difficult situations and tangled relationships by now. He didn’t seem surprised by my explanation, though I couldn’t help but feel like I’d failed somehow.

Just as suddenly as she arrived, Kaoru stopped coming to school.

I could never quite understand the mindset behind her words: "If you're in England, you’d want to hang out with white people, right?"

In the end, perhaps Kaoru leaving the international school was for the best—both for her and for those around her. In some way, it felt like there was a quiet hypocrisy in her desire to be surrounded by white people, while at the same time, she spent her days with those who were dark-skinned or had dark or brown hair—people from India, the Middle East, and beyond.

Living in an international school, or in a city with a large immigrant population, isn’t easy if you can’t get used to the idea that there are people from all different races. The students at the international school were a microcosm of the world. If you started saying things like, “If you're in England, you’d want to hang out with white people," where would it stop? It would never end.

While Japanese people don’t typically face extreme racial discrimination based solely on skin colour, I’ve personally experienced being judged because of my facial features and hair. Let’s face it, we Japanese people are part of the 'yellow' race—not white, after all.

Some people may genuinely want to associate only with a certain race. Perhaps that’s their wish.

But if you live like that, without cherishing the chance to meet people beyond the boundaries of your own preferences, you’ll end up missing out. I wondered if the Indian girl, Parol, who had admired Kaoru, had heard her say “If you're in England, you’d want to hang out with white people.”

My mother once told me, “There are all sorts of people with different ways of thinking.”

Later, one day, I saw Kaoru walking down the street. She was wearing the deep green jacket and skirt of her uniform, walking alone. I’d heard through the grapevine that she had transferred to a girls’ school, one with an international student body.

I wondered if at this new school, she was once again surrounded by people from different races. Or had she finally managed to do what she always wanted, only associating with white people?

Once you step outside the boundaries of school life, London is a city of diversity. It’s a melting pot of races, with people of all different skin tones and hair colours. I couldn’t help but wonder what Kaoru was thinking as she walked through this sea of humanity. Did the faces of the many races we passed in the streets even register in her mind?

It was all a mystery, really. I had no way of knowing. I turned in the direction of the underground station in the opposite direction from Kaoru, and made my way home.