She arrived in Japan with almost nothing. What she found there — in lecture halls, in borrowed bicycles, in a quiet man's room on the fifth floor — was not what she expected. It was both simpler and more complicated than that.
Getting familiar with the place and the new life happened naturally. The Japanese were very systematic and good with details — they had everything in order, leaving almost nothing for inquiries. In fact, during one of our orientations, a young professor had finished his talk and asked if we had any questions. When nobody reacted, a beautiful lady raised her hand and asked if she could invite him out for dinner that night. Everybody laughed and the meeting was adjourned.
Our intensive Japanese language course began shortly after our arrival. Separate classes were offered to all the grantees going to different universities within the Tohoku Region. Depending on our existing Japanese skills, we were grouped into beginner, intermediate, and advanced levels. There were two beginner classes, and I belonged to one of them. My classmates were mostly Asian — from different parts of Southeast Asia and East Asia — and the medical researcher from the Philippines was there as well. A member of the other class from Thailand would join us during lunch, always bringing food to share. We exchanged dishes sometimes, but he always had something for us. The medical researcher was preparing for a medical examination the following year, so she was always busy reading her review book. During our rest hour, the rest of us would stay and share stories about our cultures and countries.
What really caught my attention was the story of a man I will call Noel *(not his real name)*. He came from a small country in Southeast Asia that had endured one of the most violent political regimes in modern history. His parents were among the first to be targeted by the regime — killed because they were educated and prosperous. He and his siblings were taken to a labor site along with others, forced to work for long hours without food. They ate grass and anything they could find moving. One of his siblings was too young to bear the hunger and died. Another survived, but they were separated and only found each other years later, when the international community came to help.
Noel was one of those trained to help his country recover. He was given a scholarship in Russia, where he earned a Master's degree in Psychology. He returned home, became a college professor, and was actively involved in humanitarian work. He came to Japan as a researcher, which meant he could pursue a second Master's or a doctorate if he met the qualifications. He was then in his early thirties — still single, though his marriage had been arranged to take place about two years hence with the daughter of a successful businessman back home.
When he told his story, he did it without drama. He spoke softly, almost as if he were reading the news about someone else. I pitied him deeply. A man who had been through that much and still carried himself with such quiet dignity — it made my own problems feel heavy in a different way. He was extremely intelligent and knew a great deal about world history and politics, but his English was poor. He would struggle to express the ideas that were clearly vivid in his mind. Still, when he spoke, people listened.
The university was in the downtown area and could be reached by bus, on foot, or by bicycle. Some of us took the bus in the beginning, while others who had gotten bicycles from their seniors — scholars from the same country who had arrived before us — used those instead. But because we had the habit of converting yen into our own currency, our group decided it was wiser to walk or ride. Although we went to campus individually, most of us walked home together. Those who already had bicycles would join us anyway, pushing them alongside.
One day, I saw a notice on the bulletin board in the lobby. Someone was selling a secondhand bicycle. I asked a fellow scholar to help me call the number to verify it was still available. When I learned it was, I planned to go to the address after class — but I did not want to go alone.
The following day, I was walking home with my classmates along a pathway by a busy road. Noel was beside me, pushing his bicycle. I asked if he could accompany me to the owner's place. He said, "Sure, no problem. Just call me when you want to go." Our rooms had telephone lines, and I got his extension number. He was staying on the fifth floor of Building B.
I took the map from the office. The location was marked and there were arrows indicating where to turn at each corner. He met me at the lobby-and we studied the map before heading out. We found the place without difficulty. The bicycle was in good condition and the price was reasonable. I paid and thanked the owner, and we headed back. Noel pushed the bicycle as we walked together. We were not talking much — polite to each other, like courteous strangers. He took the danger side of the pathway and checked the road before letting me cross. When we reached the gate, I took the bicycle from him and thanked him before we parted.
The medical researcher, Juliet, had her own bicycle from our senior, so we rode to campus together the next day. We were both nervous — it had been a long time since either of us had ridden — and we wobbled the entire way. I had learned to ride as a child in our village, where lending bicycles by the hour was a small business. I never imagined the experience would become an asset later. Some of the shortcut roads had no pathways, so we would stop whenever a vehicle approached. But that was only during the first few days. Soon, our bicycles became nearly as essential as our books. Riding one was nothing to be ashamed of in Japan — it was common to see people in suits commuting on them. But I always found seeing an elderly person riding one on the street to be an inspiring sight.
When we started receiving our monthly allowance, Juliet and I began discovering the culture and the city together. We would laugh at our own ignorance. We attended mass on Sundays, went shopping at different places trying to find the cheapest things, and rode our bicycles to the downtown market just to save a little money. I would not use much for myself so I could send more to my family. I would not take any of the nice items in the department store even though I had my own credit card — a bank representative had come to campus offering applications, and I remembered how I had been repeatedly refused by banks in the Philippines because of my very low salary. It was like a dream when someone was there practically handing it to me. I had no plans of using it, but I thought I might need it someday.
One of the activities we could join during our free time was a university-sponsored homestay program. When I saw the announcement on the bulletin board near my room, I signed up. We were taken to the nearby town of Shichigahama and introduced to local officials and host families. We had no idea who our families would be — they were the ones who chose from among us.
Mine was a man wearing training pants and a jacket, with a reddish face and a smile that sparkled. His eyes were nearly closed from smiling, but he tried to keep his lips together. He was about my height but certainly lighter. He could speak some English and was excited to tell me about his visits to the Philippines. His name was Mr. Wakamatsu, a retired Sony employee and former active JICA member.
He drove me to his home — a two-story house in a village overlooking a lake and an open field. The garden outside was narrow but the plants were beautifully arranged. His wife, a physical education teacher, could not speak English, but we understood each other through sign language and my very limited Japanese. The house had hosted many students from different countries over the years, and Mr. Wakamatsu clearly enjoyed it. His wife served sweets and tea. After the refreshment, I was shown the bathroom, given instructions on how to use the bathtub, and then accompanied upstairs to a bedroom that would be exclusively mine during my stay. I wondered if the other scholars who did not join the program knew what they were missing.
The following day was an indoor activity at the town's aqua arena — a facility complete with sports amenities, from gymnastics to swimming. We had been instructed to bring swimwear, so I had bought short pants and a T-shirt, thinking they would be acceptable just like in the Philippines. But the watcher would not even let me approach the pool. Instead, I was pointed to the next area: the public hot bath.
When I stepped inside, I was shocked to see naked women washing at one corner, some walking with only a small towel covering their front, and others sitting quietly in what looked like boiling water. I stepped back out and considered going somewhere else. But where? Everyone was still at the pool having fun. Without much choice, I went back in and observed. Except for a few, they did not seem to know each other. Neither did they seem to mind being undressed. I watched a woman come in, remove all her clothes, take a small towel, and calmly wash herself before walking into the bath.
Some of the women had already noticed my fully clothed presence and seemed uncomfortable. I thought it would be better to do as they did so they would not feel suspicious. They did not know who I was, so I did not have to worry about what they thought of my body — though theirs were clean and unblemished from head to toe, and mine was everything they were not. Slowly, I took off my clothes one by one, still checking if somebody was looking. I took the small towel I had bought and held it in front of me, moving it up and down, unsure which part deserved the most coverage.
By the time I reached the washing area and sat on one of the stools, some of the women had already begun leaving. I washed myself thoroughly — it took me quite some time. When I was finally ready to step into the bath, there were far fewer people, mostly older women. Having survived the most embarrassing part, the rest was easy. I was even laughing at myself.
Because my specialization was Mathematics, I was assigned to visit a professor at a nearby university of education. It was quite far from our residence, and the only way to get there was by bus. I was already set to go one day when I thought of giving Noel some of the food I had prepared that morning. I remembered he usually bought his meals from a fast food chain, and I had not properly returned the favor he did for me when I bought the bicycle. I put some food in a bowl, covered it, and carried it in a paper bag.
I went to Building B and up the stairs to the fifth floor. His room was the farthest one, right next to the emergency exit. I knocked, and I noticed someone peek through the small hole in the door. He opened it and I told him about the food. He asked me in and offered a chair, but I chose to remain standing. He transferred the food to another dish and washed my bowl. As he did, I looked around. His room was neat and clean for a man. Books were spread open on the table, with markers still in place — he had clearly been studying.
He finished washing and wiping the bowl and handed it back to me. I reached for it and headed toward the door, pretending to be in a hurry. The truth was, I had grown uncomfortable finding myself alone in his room. But he took my free hand and asked if I really had to go so soon. I said yes — but he kissed my hand, then leaned in to kiss my face. I stepped back, but my back was soon against the wall. Before I knew it, he was kissing me on my lips, holding me as though I were a beautiful young woman. I pushed him gently and he stopped. He looked into my eyes as if searching for a reaction, but I moved toward the door again and said, "I really have to go now." He opened it, thanked me for the food, and I heard the door close behind me.
I did not look back. I was shocked and worried that someone might have seen me coming from his room. Suddenly, I was in a panic. What if my senior or the doctor saw me and asked where I had been? Every second walking from his door to mine felt like being trapped underwater — all I wanted was to surface and take a breath. It was such a relief to get inside my room and close the door. Still shaking, I took a glass of water and sat down. Then I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I touched my lips. I felt the parts of my body where his hands had been.
Then I realized something about myself. I was not angry. On the contrary, I was thrilled. And I would laugh at myself with the thought.
I went to visit my professor as planned, but the kissing scene kept flashing back in my mind during the entire trip. I tried to think of reasons why he did it and gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was my fault — any man in his position might have done the same, perhaps in a less gentle manner. We had been in Japan for quite some time and he must have missed being with a woman privately. Whatever the reason, I decided to forget about it and move on.
At school, Noel and I acted normally, as if nothing had happened. We greeted each other casually in the corridor, and his performance in class did not seem to be affected. But that was him — he was always composed. I was the one who could not stop thinking. I would wash my dirty clothes even if there were only a few, just to have a reason to go up to the rooftop and hang them — and from there, watch him seated at his study table, turning pages and taking notes, whenever his curtains were not drawn. It was a relief to see him busy studying. At least I knew he was not with another woman.
While I thought my experience in acting had been useful in hiding my emotions, I must have failed to convince him that I had forgotten what happened. I found myself back in his room again. And again. What had started with a bowl of food became something neither of us had planned for.
I had been sending almost all of my monthly allowance to my family, but they kept asking for more. I used to borrow from my Filipino seniors before the next allowance arrived. They would ask me to sign an IOU — a promissory note, promising to pay a certain amount on a certain date. I never failed to keep my promise, and they were truly a great help. But Noel would lend me any amount I needed without a single question nor a piece of paper to sign. So I stopped borrowing from them.
I had no idea whether anyone knew about the affair, because nobody asked me directly. But there was one moment that made me suspect. I was gathered with some of the Filipino scholars at the International House lobby one day, and they were talking about how much money women received on average for certain services. I said what I thought — that it was too little. Then one of the men asked, in passing, "Why? How much do you pay a man?" He did not laugh or apologize. I found the question deeply offensive, but I kept quiet. "If you only knew the truth," I thought. But I left the judgment to God.
Our Japanese language course lasted for six months. Those who were qualified could then transfer to their respective universities. Scholars going to universities in Sendai stayed in the same residence, while those transferring elsewhere moved to new housing. I was going to move to Akita — but before I did, I returned to the Philippines for the graduation ceremony at my school.Cinderella's accreditation will become a pivotal issue in later chapters, as the school grows — and as those left in charge of it begin to take advantage.
I had not applied for the school's accreditation before because I knew it would be denied — the building occupied only twenty square meters and had no playground. But I also knew the Department of Education could grant accreditation to a school that proved it could deliver quality education. My first batch of students could read and write within just one year. They had been promoted to first grade in elementary, and I was confident they could convince any government evaluator that Cinderella deserved recognition.
When I got home, the school had a pile of debts despite all the money I had sent, even though parents had paid their obligations. I settled them and focused on the graduation. I invited a staff member from the Department of Education as our guest speaker. Just as I had hoped, he recommended Cinderella for accreditation — up to fourth grade in elementary. Getting approval for higher levels would be easier after that, I thought.
During my stay, I discovered how Marlon and his sister had been handling the school finances. Through the other teachers, I learned how they had lavished themselves while depriving my children of the better life they deserved — all with the money I sent. I also learned they had forged my signature to withdraw from my checking account, which resulted in bounced checks to people I owed money before leaving for Japan. But I did not want to start any trouble that might delay or complicate my return. Instead, I decided to have the school's second floor built during the summer. I called my family again to help with construction.
Marlon had been pursuing me since the day I returned, wanting me to sleep with him. He was irritable, and everyone in the house knew why. But even without anyone else in my life, how could a wife find a reason to be intimate with a man after everything he and his sister had done? Still, worried about what he might do and upon everyone's concerned suggestion, I agreed — just once, before I left for Japan again. My mind was somewhere else entirely.
Back in Japan, I moved into the Akita University International Residence. The building was simpler and smaller than the one in Sendai, but closer to the university. I occupied a room on the second floor. Only two of my co-grantees from Sendai had also come to Akita — one was an engineer from Papua New Guinea who was kind and friendly to everyone.
My room had been occupied by a Filipina before me, and she left some of her bedding upon learning I was coming. Akita was known to be an extremely cold place during winter, and I was about to find out how true that was. My next-door neighbors were from Malaysia — very nice but quite young for me. The wife of another scholar, from India, became my closest friend there. I loved her milk tea and her character.
Because the professor who had originally accepted me had already retired, a new one was assigned. He was Chinese but had an excellent command of Japanese. There were three men taking Education with a Mathematics major who became my constant companions at the department. One was assigned as my assistant — he was the most lively and funny, and could speak some English. My professor gave me freedom to choose my own activities and schedule, as long as I reported my progress regularly and finished my research paper on time. He also allowed me to take a part-time job teaching English to a group of Japanese women. It was offered to me by a chance encounter at the office — a woman came in looking for a replacement English teacher, and I happened to be there at the right time. The pay was generous enough that I could not refuse.
The communication between Noel and me was not cut. We both had cellphones, and I could stay at his new place for as long as I wanted. He had moved to a larger two-floor unit — unfortunately for me, it was directly across from the lobby and the office. I had to wear something with a hood to cover my head whenever I arrived. Once inside, the only time I would step out was when it was time to return to Akita.
He had become a very good provider and teacher to me. He never asked for a single yen as my share in any expense. He would teach me about history and current events from different countries. He was remarkably knowledgeable — he said he had loved reading newspapers and articles about world affairs since he was young. His weakness remained his English. We always spoke in English and his speaking had improved a great deal, but putting ideas into writing was still a big challenge.
Because he had already earned a Master's degree in Psychology from Russia, he thought it was impractical to pursue the same degree again in Japan. He wanted to enter the Law Department instead — he believed his country needed more people with that specialization. His friends said transferring departments was impossible, and we may even have been told so during our orientation. But he wanted to try. If it did not work, he was willing to go back home and apply for another scholarship elsewhere.This law degree — and the proposal she wrote — will shape both their futures in ways neither of them can foresee.
With the stories I had heard about his country, I thought that if there was one thing I could do for its people, it was to help produce a person with a good heart and the right knowledge to play an active role in rebuilding a torn nation. I told Noel about my idea. I was going to prepare his research proposal — but first, I had to read extensively about his country's history and its legal needs. He was surprised and tried to discourage me, knowing I had my own research paper to finish. But I assured him it would not jeopardize my studies. I still had ample time for my own work, while his proposal needed to be completed as soon as possible.
The house turned into something like a library in the days that followed — quiet, with books everywhere. My knowledge about his country was very limited, and my vocabulary in law was even worse. But I did not see it as a problem. With his personal books and those from the library, we could manage. I prayed before I started reading. It was something I had forgotten to do before I applied for the Monbusho Scholarship the first time.
After what felt like burning our eyebrows — and several trips back and forth between Akita and his apartment — I thought I was ready to discuss the proposal with him. We had read the same books in preparation. When I knew we were standing on the same ground, I began to put the idea in writing. He did his part, and by the time he needed to submit the proposal, it had been sitting in a folder for days. He had read it so many times he had nearly memorized it. What we had to do next was wait for the Law professor's response.
I did not want to miss the occasion, so I was there again — hoping to celebrate with him. He was nervous, but I was confident when he left. He did not call to tell me the result. He just came home quietly, looking tired from having ridden his bicycle back. I went down until the middle of the stairs and watched him hang his jacket in the bedroom. Still no words.
I asked him how it went. He looked at me with a neutral face and climbed to the living room, where I followed. He spoke softly.
"It's unbelievable," he said in Japanese.
He took a deep breath and then broke the news.
She came to Japan looking for an escape from her marriage and a way to support her children. What she found instead was a quiet man who had survived far worse — and an unexpected partnership that challenged everything she thought she knew about kindness, loyalty, and risk. By writing his research proposal, she did not just help him enter a law department. She proved to herself that her mind could build something for another person's future, not just her own. The boy who stayed quiet had given her, in return, a reason to believe that her voice — and her pen — actually mattered.