So graduation arrived, and while I remained invisible for much of the day, it felt like a privilege to bear witness to such an emotion-fuelled and carefully staged event.

The gym was decked out immaculately. The whole school was present, plus parents in their finest suits. I bought a new suit for the occasion, and thinking that black would be a touch morbid, I went for a cheery grey. It turned out everyone wears black at graduation; I’m only glad I didn’t show up in my fuscia pink number.

This was the second most formal occasion I have attended in Japan, after meeting the mayor. The principal wore tails, no less, and handed each student their graduation certificate in a carefully choreographed manner - held high momentarily, handed to the student with both hands, the student holding the certificate aloft, then making their way back to their seats - and making sure that any turns necessary were done only at 90 degrees.

Speeches were made by governers and the like, then by two students. One was a second year boy addressing all their sempais and thanking them for their guidance, support and inspiration. The other was by the head girl, for which all the teachers had to stand, so I could only presume it was addressed to us. This was a long speech which was hard for me to follow. At one point in which I had truly lost track, 75% of the students broke down in tears. While I expected some tears at some point from a few of the girls, I never expected to see the boys show such an open display of emotion.

The ceremony closed with a projected photo montage of all the things these students have done together - sports day, culture festival, school trips and general larking about, and I couldn’t help but well up a little too.

Any Brit worth his or her salt would probably balk at the pomp and ceremony accompanying junior high school graduation, despite our historic penchance for both pomp and ceremony. The reason we’d balk, I think, is to do with our attitude towards our young people. I remember leaving secondary school in floods of tears, and I remember at least two teachers almost scoffing at me and my friends’ sadness at parting ways, claiming we were being melodramatic and that of course we’d see each other again.

But leaving secondary school is about much more than leaving your friends, and that’s never more true than in Japan. I remember Louise saying once that 3rd year breaks the students; they leave behind their wonderfully child-like genkiness, and enter a world that is 100% work-centred; high school is a gruelling introduction to adulthood, and through their entrance exams they gain a taste of what the coming three years will be like.

That’s why, when I saw the students’ tears, I couldn’t help but wonder what really lay behind them. Possibly my favourite student, who we’ll call Jake for now, was sat right in front of me. He wept as he tried to belt out the school song at the top of his voice (another thing I love about Japan - even at 15 years old the students are totally unabashed to sing at the top of their lungs, even - and maybe especially - the boys). Jake normally has the brightest, most smiling eyes of anyone I’ve met; he’s a goofy lad but an absolute charmer as he is always sunny. Yet when I saw how the prospect of leaving junior high school seemed to be breaking his heart, something of the maternal came over me and I wanted to give him a big hug and tell him it’s going to be ok. 

The students have told me how mixed their feelings are about leaving. It’s not just the scary prospect of high school that makes them reluctant; these kids have spent day in day out - and during most holidays too - with the same 30 or so people for three years. While that’s less time than the five years British teenagers spend at secondary school, they have barely parted ways - the students are not setted for anything, and do not change classroom for classes, meaning they have been in one space with one another continually for that time. Their commitment to club activities also means that school is absolutely central to their lives. 

Thus being the case, when I saw one my English teachers, beautifully dressed in yukata with hair most women would only bother with on their wedding day (she got up at 4am, while another didn’t even go to bed last night, wanting to do ‘the best job he can’), she became tearful in her final address to her class. They had only been her class for one year, yet the familial atmosphere in Japanese schools meant that this was a heart-wrenching experience for her, too.

I left with a feeling of absolute admiration today, both for the students and for this particular facet of Japanese culture. The students’ achievements were lauded as they should be, and their emotion understood. There was no cynicism, and no falsehood. For most of these students, I don’t amount to much more than a token foreigner, sporadically in the midst of all that their busy lives entail. There are a small handful, however, who will probably never know how much they have helped me and who I sincerely hope will pursue their dreams of travel and adventure and stop by England along the way.

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