Graduation in Japan: Songs, Silence, and March 11
Life in Japan – Issue 018
In many countries across the Americas and Europe, graduation and new beginnings arrive with the bright, early summer light of June. In Japan, however, this special milestone comes in March, just as the harsh winter begins to fade.
In Japanese society, March is widely embraced as the most emotional month of the year. It marks a significant turning point where one story concludes and the next chapter begins. It is the season of “Kadode“—a spiritual departure or “setting out” that the Japanese people have cherished since ancient times.
Graduation ceremonies in Japan differ slightly from the high-energy, jubilant celebrations seen elsewhere. They are quieter, more introspective occasions. It is a day to reflect on the time shared with peers, to mourn the parting from friends with whom one has worked hard, and to offer deep gratitude to teachers, the school, and the environment that provided support. Fueled by that gratitude, it is a solemn day of independence where each individual steps forward into an unknown future on their own two feet.
In this season, when cherry blossom buds begin to swell, we intentionally pause, bow deeply to the past, and organize our hearts. This week, I would like to share the spirit deep within Japanese culture regarding this milestone and the “scenery of a certain March” etched into my memory.
Why the Japanese Sing at Graduation
There is a specific “soundscape” indispensable to any Japanese graduation. During the ceremony, it is common for all graduates to raise their voices together in song.
A unique feature of Japanese education is that almost every school, from elementary to high school, has its own unique “school song“ (Koka). The culture of singing these songs at milestones like entrance ceremonies, as a symbol of the community to which one belongs, is deeply rooted. However, at graduation, in addition to these, “graduation songs” sung by the students to express their final feelings play a vital role as the ceremony’s climax.
A Growing Treasury of “Songs of the Heart”
In Japan, there are numerous graduation songs that almost every Japanese person can hum. What is fascinating is that old songs do not simply disappear; rather, songs from new eras are added one after another, creating a growing treasury of shared music across generations.
“Augeba Totoshi”: A prestigious song from the Meiji era expressing respect and gratitude toward teachers.
“Tabidachi no Hi ni” (On the Day of Departure): Created by junior high school teachers in the 1990s, it has become a modern anthem loved across generations.
J-POP Anthems: In recent years, songs by popular artists, such as “March 9th” by Remioromen or “Seikai” (The Correct Answer) by RADWIMPS (known for the film Your Name), have become staples, sung for decades.
While the songs people feel most strongly about may differ by generation, the older classics are never forsaken. Instead, the repertoire of songs that Japanese people can sing together continues to expand with time.
When voices unite in the final moments of graduation, a sense of unity is born that transcends words. As each individual with their own unique personality places their thoughts into a single melody, they offer gratitude for the past and share the courage to move toward the future.
This harmony is the very aesthetic of parting that the Japanese people hold dear. However, for me, this beautiful resonance was once interrupted by an unexpected and violent tremor one spring morning.
March 11, 2011
Japanese graduations follow a unique and strict “form.” For weeks leading up to the day, students practice repeatedly. The speed of walking during entrance and exit, the timing of sitting down in perfect unison, the tone of the response when one’s name is called—this process of refining every movement into harmony is one of the iconic scenes of Japanese school culture.
In March 2011, as a junior high school student in Hokkaido, I was in the middle of such a practice in the school gymnasium. Amid the cold air and the repeated drills of singing our graduation songs, the quiet tension was suddenly shattered by a violent shaking from beneath our feet.
The wide gymnasium creaked loudly, the straight lines of students broke, and an ominous air instantly dominated the room. Fortunately, the area of Hokkaido where I lived was spared from catastrophic physical damage. However, the sights I witnessed after the shaking stopped fundamentally overturned our “ordinary daily life.” That was the Great East Japan Earthquake.
Through the television screen, I saw unbelievable images. I could only watch in silence as schools and towns, where someone surely had been waiting for their graduation just the day before, were swallowed by the dark waters.
From that day on, my heart wavered violently. I felt the overwhelming terror of nature and the utter helplessness of humans against it. While we were practicing for our graduation, there were people losing their lives or their loved ones. I remember spending unstable days, my chest tightened by deep sorrow and the frustration of being able to do nothing but pray.
Even now, 15 years later (as of 2026), there are people whose wounds from that day have not healed. In this disaster, approximately 20,000 precious lives were lost, including disaster-related deaths, and even today, more than 2,500 people remain missing. Furthermore, residential damage caused by the tsunami and other factors reached approximately 400,000 houses, including those completely or partially destroyed.
A Prayer for Peace
Every year, when the month of March returns, the feelings I experienced that day quietly resurface. It is the realization of how precious our peaceful daily lives are, and that the ability to welcome tomorrow together is a miracle built upon countless fragile moments.
Looking across the world today, there are many people whose lives have been torn apart by conflict or disaster, and who are not even permitted the quiet rituals of “parting” or “starting anew.” Working hard alongside friends, praising each other’s efforts, and stepping forward into the future—the scenes we took for granted in Japanese graduations were, I now deeply realize, irreplaceable moments that could only exist upon a foundation of peace.
I want to transform the “will to never forget” that I have carried since that day into a prayer. It is a vow not only to mourn the past but also to never forget to be grateful for living in this moment and for having an environment where I can say “thank you” to those who matter to me.
I sincerely hope that the season of graduation does not end as a mere memory of parting, but that a gentle spring arrives for everyone, everywhere in the world, so they may walk toward tomorrow with hope.
Carried on the winds of March, I close this article with the hope that these memories may serve as a source of comfort to someone, somewhere.
If you feel comfortable sharing, I would love to hear about graduation traditions in your country.
—Written by Sumire