"Sensei, Are We Strangers?" — The Day a Chinese Student's Tears and My "Thank You" Passed Each Other By

Introduction

A few years after I started working as a Japanese language teacher, I met a Chinese international student, Zhang-kun (pseudonym). Among all the students in my class, he was the hardest worker and the one who looked up to me the most.

Even after class ended, he would eagerly come to ask questions, and when I wasn't feeling well, he was always the first to show concern. I trusted and cherished him not just as a teacher, but as a human being.

But between us, there was always a small, indescribable "sense of discomfort."

It was that he—never said "thank you."

Accumulating "Unease" and the Decisive Incident

At first, I thought lightly, "Maybe he's shy" or "Maybe he just missed the timing." However, as our relationship deepened and I became more involved in supporting his job hunting, that discomfort transformed into an unignorable "unease."

For example, when he was preparing for an interview with his first-choice company, I stayed up all night proofreading his statement of purpose. When I handed him the manuscript, covered in red marks, the next morning while rubbing my sleepy eyes, he flipped through it and simply said, "Okay, I understand. I'll fix it," then put it in his bag.

Wait, that's it? What about my all-night effort?

Another time, when I went home for vacation, I bought some local sweets he had mentioned liking as a souvenir. When I gave them to him saying, "I chose these for you, Zhang-kun," he carelessly tossed them into his backpack without even looking inside and left saying, "See you next week."

In my heart, loneliness and a bit of irritation accumulated like sediment. "I'm doing so much for him, but does he feel nothing?" "Maybe he's just taking advantage of my goodwill?"

As a teacher, I shouldn't expect anything in return. I understood that intellectually, but my human emotions couldn't keep up.

Then one day after school, I finally reached my limit. When he was once again unresponsive to my help, I removed my teacher's mask and said emotionally:

"Zhang-kun, shouldn't you say 'thank you' here? Isn't it common sense to express gratitude when someone does something for you?"

What He Told Me About "True Closeness in My Country"

Upon hearing my words, Zhang-kun's eyes widened as if he had seen a ghost, and he froze on the spot. Then tears began to overflow from his eyes.

I was startled. Maybe I had gone too far. But the words he squeezed out next were something I could never have imagined.

"Sensei... are we strangers?"

What? What does that mean? As I stood there confused, he began to speak haltingly.

"In my country... we don't say 'thank you (xièxie)' to family or people we're truly close to. If we did, it would feel formal, like we're creating a wall between us. If I say 'thank you' to you, sensei, it makes you feel distant."

It was like being struck by lightning. "Don't say it to family." Those words echoed in my mind.

His silence, which I had perceived as "lacking manners" or "insufficient gratitude," was actually his expression of the deepest affection—trusting me "like family."

My insistence on "kindness" had sounded to him like a cold declaration that "we are strangers."

Come to think of it, there were many things that made sense now.

Instead of saying "thank you" with words, on rainy days when I was stuck without an umbrella, he would silently offer his own umbrella and run off getting wet himself. That was his way of "repaying through action" to the fullest extent.

Also, when I talked with him, he never stared directly into my eyes, always looking slightly away, toward my throat area. I had thought "maybe he lacks confidence," but that might have been evidence of him desperately trying to follow the Japanese "etiquette of avoidance" toward superiors in his own way.

In his own way, within the foreign culture of Japan, he was trying to respect and cherish me. Yet I had only been looking at him through the glasses of my own "common sense."

Conclusion

That day, I sincerely apologized to Zhang-kun. And I told him how much his silence had been a "proof of trust" that made me happy.

After the misunderstanding was cleared up, we made a promise.

"I understand your feelings painfully well, Zhang-kun. But this is Japan. In Japanese society, if you don't say 'thank you,' everyone will misunderstand like I did. So from now on, let's practice with 'Team Japan' rules. I'll be the coach, and you'll be the player. How about it?"

He wiped away his tears and nodded, embarrassed but firmly.

Cross-cultural understanding isn't about memorizing knowledge written in books. It's about using your imagination to see the "justice" and "kindness" behind the "silence" and "incomprehensible actions" of the person in front of you. And it's about having the courage to question your own "common sense"—that's what Zhang-kun taught me.

Even now, the "silence" he shows in fleeting moments feels precious to me.