Musuta Kusaka's Everyday Journey with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion in Japan

*All photos in this article are taken with consideration for people in various environments and situations. The faces of exhibitors are not photographed, and country names are not mentioned. Images of general visitors and performers who have not been given permission to be photographed have been edited. Please be aware of this in advance.

The atmosphere in the venue was so hot that it was overwhelming. The lunch was spicy and delicious.

As soon as we arrived at the park, my daughter, riding on my shoulders, started clapping along, saying, “I know this song! ” The soulful voice of the gospel singer echoed throughout the venue, and the gathered audience responded with enthusiastic handclaps.

The crowd was not only in front of the stage, but the whole venue was filled with people’s breath. It was so crowded that I hesitated to step in as a family. From my daughter’s point of view, I’m sure it looked like people with colorful clothes and skin were circulating, mixing together as far as the eye could see.

This is hot. The second event, which was held in the rain, was pretty bad, but this third event was on a completely different level. May 20, 2023, the third Refugee and Immigrant Festival. I invited my family to visit. I took the trouble to write down the date because I am sure it will continue in the future. That’s how much excitement there was in Heisei Tsutsuji Park in Nerima, Tokyo.

How many times more visitors were there than last time? I knew that two or three times would not be enough, but I couldn’t imagine anything more than that. There is no doubt that it was the most densely populated event in Nerima that day.

The behavior of the visitors was uniformly modest. Everyone seemed to be conscious of a certain code. Although it was advertised as a festival, it was clear that it was not just a simple celebration. But at the same time, there was also a festival-like tranquility. Everyone was friendly and enjoying the atmosphere. It was almost like they were celebrating. I’m glad it was held. I’m glad we met. Good vibes.

This excitement. I was hungry and couldn’t keep up. I asked the girl on my shoulder. “Can you see anything you want to eat from there?” I didn’t even need to ask. There were long lines all over the venue, and each snake had its head stuck in the food booth. If there’s a line, you just get in line. From
Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and more. The spicy smells and sweet aromas of various cuisines from various countries tickled my nose. It reminded me of the unique breeze you get when traveling to a foreign country.

The thing that caught our family’s eye was a Chusinian dish called Brick. It was a large crepe-like dough wrapped with eggs, tuna, cheese, onion, parsley, etc. and deep-fried. From the chef’s skillful hands, it was definitely a dish that was crisp on the outside and fluffy and soft on the inside. It’s the one that all 7.9 billion people love. Gulp.”That’s it.”
“But you have to wait in line like that,” my wife muttered , and Madame recommended it from the side, “This is delicious. It’s worth waiting in line to eat. I guarantee it.” Such casual conversations are also one of the fun parts of this event. It’s decided. My wife is in charge of Paris Fuwa. I’m in charge of sweets and desserts. We split into two groups and got to the end of the line. Just when I thought that, my wife came back to me within a few minutes. “No good. It’s sold out. ” “Really?” “Sorry, that’s all. Tch.” Too bad. Paris Fuwa didn’t work. But somehow I felt happy. “Oh! Business is booming! That’s great!” That’s what I had to say. Today, all I wanted to do was sell, sell, and sell. I came here hoping that I could help someone. Looking around again, I saw a cross on every menu item. Items were constantly being sold out. Of course. The people setting up the booths were refugee applicants and people on provisional release. Not everyone can get support from restaurants. In fact, there may even be times when they are worried about what they’ll have to eat tomorrow. Still, just the fact that they’re buying ingredients and cooking for dozens of people makes the food ten times more precious.

Still, we managed to get some food. Curry. And kottu, a curry-flavored stir-fried vegetable dish. Both were Sri Lankan dishes. The three of us sat on the curb of the flowerbed and opened the lid. A fragrant warm air wafted through the air. I wonder how people in those countries are so good at using spices. The stir-fried vegetables were cooked with such gusto, like the yakisoba you get at festival stalls. In the end, they were more like fried vegetables than fried. The vegetables were completely unmotivated and exhausted. But that was good. The low barrier to entry. It was because it felt like home cooking that we could eat it without hesitation. My daughter had already split her chopsticks and locked onto the stir-fried vegetables. Normally she would shy away from new foods, but on this day she took the shortest route to reach for them. If it had been a foreign dish, it probably wouldn’t have turned out like this.

“It’s spicy! spicy! spicy! spicy!”
My daughter was in agony. Yes. It was spicy. It lured me into a false sense of security, but the taste was authentic. And it made a big impact. This is the best part of having a foreign cuisine made by an authentic person
. Not only my daughter, but my wife, who doesn’t like spicy food at all, also gave up. On the other hand, I, who loves spicy food, was unexpectedly blessed with the good fortune of having it all to myself.
“Oh, so spicy. delicious.”
It was so delicious that I wondered how this flavor could be created with ingredients and seasonings available in Japan. The seasoning went well with white rice, and even more so with beer. It may not be a fundamentalist taste like the one in my hometown, but rather a slight resemblance to the Japanese curry flavor. It may have just been the convenience of the seasonings available.
I thought about the difficulties of fleeing my home country and coming to Japan and adapting to life here.

Enjoy as many sweets as there are countries. Fall in love with sweet aroma goods at first sight and buy them.

“Do you want to go and try all-you-can-eat foreign sweets?” I brought my daughter here with that line.
So sweets are the main focus for my daughter. Even if the rice is too spicy for her to eat, it’s no problem. Let’s fill up on sweets. No stiff talk today.

The first thing my daughter tried was a Myanmar sweet called Shwe Inn Ey Tha. It was coconut milk with tapioca, jelly, bread, and sticky rice like red rice. It was a dish that you don’t often come across in your everyday life.
“Milk?” “No, not milk.” It was my daughter’s first experience with coconut milk and sweet rice. She put a spoonful to her mouth. “I’ll give this to Daddy.” She gently handed me the bowl. I see. The coconut was what it was. That’s good, too. It’s good that she didn’t say anything bad about the food. Well, Daddy will have some.

Sweet. Violently sweet. But it’s good. It gently seeped into my tongue, which was burned by the spices. It was my first time eating red rice dipped in coconut milk. It had a strange taste or texture. It was like a liquid version of ohagi. I feel that the unpretentious, monotonous sweetness is also similar to that of ordinary Japanese sweets. This is the kind of thing that you suddenly remember and crave. It must be Myanmar soul food. It

was too unknown for my 6-year-old mouth. Someday, when peace is restored to that country, let’s travel together. Let’s try it again then. If you eat it while feeling the local breeze, you will surely understand its true deliciousness.

My daughter had already finished the Madeleine-like bread without realizing it, and was now biting into the next cookie. It was crescent-shaped and covered in chocolate. I didn’t check which country it was from. Since it was crescent-shaped, it might have been from a country close to the Middle East or Arabia. “Delicious! Mom and Dad, please have one too.” There were exactly three cookies. The mother and daughter ate them like squirrels.

They looked like ordinary baked goods. But when I took a bite, I was surprised by the texture. They were dense, yet crumbled softly. They were crispy, yet moist and mellow. What is this? How do they bake them to be so delicious?
“This is good. It’s softer than it looks.” My wife nodded, leaving half and handing it back to her daughter. ” You have the rest.” The daughter smiled as if it was destined to happen.

Now that my stomach was full, it was time for some shopping. That was also one of the great pleasures. Since
I had already bought some items that caught my eye in the second round, I was a little skeptical as to whether there was anything I wanted.

It was a refugee and immigrant festival, as you would expect. There was something I decided to buy within seconds. It was Saher Rose’s “Saheru Field” booth.
“Cute!””It’s cute, isn’t it?” “So cute.” It was made of chalky ceramic, like an upside-down Starbucks tumbler. It had palm trees with pink leaves and orange cats on it. The painting was bright and rounded, and the design was sweet. It was an aroma lamp. I knew that it would be far from sweet in the bedroom of a man in his 40s, but I couldn’t take my eyes off this aroma lamp.
Is this what they call love at first sight? And it was only 1,000 yen. That’s a cheap price for love at first sight. I leaned forward and said, “I’ll buy it!” , and the salesperson replied with a smile that seemed to say, “I guess so.”
I was suffering from insomnia, and I was thinking of introducing incense and aromas into my bedroom, which was out of character for me, so the satisfaction level was far beyond my imagination. Just being able to buy this made the trudge all the way to Nerima worth it.

A live performance by FUNI, the most humble hip-hopper in Japan, who writes about pain and hope through his rhymes. And the outcome of the tug-of-war competition.

The main event of the day was a live performance by rapper FUNI. He calls himself the most humble rapper in Japan. In his self-introduction on stage, he said he was from Kawasaki and was a 2.5 generation Korean resident in Japan. He said that all of his relatives had overstayed their visas. He made his major debut as a hip-hop artist. After that, he became an IT company president. He made big money, but for some reason he went on a wandering journey. He returned to being a rapper again, and in addition to performing live, he has also appeared in movies and written songs, appeared on TV, and held rap workshops at juvenile detention centers and elderly care facilities.

I’ve been paying attention to Enough respect ever since I saw his symposium at Meiji University online. When I looked up his videos, I found out that he participated in an event called Shinjuku Spoken Word Slum (SSWS) that used to be held at a venue called MARZ in Shinjuku. Ah. The one I went to every time. That means I must have seen him back then. It was an unexpected reunion. I timed it to the time of the program and took my place in the front row of the audience. And the live performance began.

I think they performed about three songs. They were about
FUNI’s upbringing. The pain of living with the identity of a minority. Encouragement and hope for compatriots who face difficulties due to their nationality. To be honest, the boundary between the songs and the MC was unclear. That’s how absorbed they were in the stage.

The lyrics are harsh. Not only that, but there is a rawness that comes from having survived the reality of the scene, and I feel a toughness. Cool. Despite that, the impression of hardcore is not too strong, probably because his voice is soft and he is a good singer. His flow is melodious, with a unique gentleness and persuasiveness. It may be the maturity that comes from his career and age. Over his back, I could see the audience shaking their heads and swaying their bodies. The children playing next to them were very picturesque.

The live started at 14:45 and lasted only 15 minutes until 15:00. It went by in a flash, but I felt like I had dived to a very deep place. The lyrics were flying at me like crazy. The beat was pounding. But I couldn’t hear anything else. My head was filled with silence and music. It was a dense time. Maybe this is what free diving feels like. I hardly remember anything. Even though I was very moved. There was too much information and my memory is gone. Only the shock of being crushed remains as an echo. Like a dream I had just seen, but woke up and forgot.

But there’s one punch line I remember.

Hey Hood, don’t make it bad. Don’t be discouraged, my friend.

There was a song that only he could sing. Hip-hop is a real way. It’s a cruel art form that shows you how to live your life. It’s a culture that competes with songs that only you can make. At least, I like that side of hip-hop. So I don’t think there could be a more suitable song for that day, that place. Real and bitter to the last. But it’s a song that doesn’t forget Peace, Love, Unity, and Having fun. No, it’s a song that doesn’t give up. He poured bitterness, pain, kindness, and hope onto the stage, and rocked the audience. And then, bowing his head again, FUNI left the stage. I felt like looking up at the simple stage, which didn’t have any steps to go down.

Many refugees and immigrants in difficult situations are participating in this event. So it’s not appropriate for someone like me, who lives comfortably, to feel encouraged. It’s out of the question to complain. I know that. But. FUNI’s rap reminds me of where the wounds are in my heart. It makes me feel the hidden discomfort of life. As long as I’m feeling the pain, it’s okay. Aren’t those who turn a blind eye to that pain the ones who are weaker next to them? There’s nothing more frightening than people who ignore their own weaknesses. Aren’t there too many people and organizations like that? Are they out of their minds?

I wonder what the song was called. I’ll go home and listen to YouTube again. I want the CD. Is this the age of streaming? It’s a bit harsh for an old schooler. I stood up from the bench in the audience.

Jump.

The host yelled into the microphone. “The last event for today is a tug-of-war. We’ll do it behind you after this.” And there it was. The most puzzling program of the day was a tug-of-war. Why did they call it a tug-of-war? Where did they borrow the rope from? It all looked fun.

My daughter ran to the back of the group and grabbed the rope. She was full of enthusiasm. In front of me was a woman in bright pink clothes. Oh, it was the MC. Probably the organizer, Kanai Maki. Oh dear. Do your best, my daughter. Do your best, Kanai-san. Thanks to Kanai-san’s efforts, so many people today have found the means to live tomorrow. I have no intention of speaking for those who are struggling, but I somehow felt like thanking her. If I meet her someday, I’ll say thank you. Thank you for organizing the event.

Hmm. Her struggle was in vain, and she lost. My daughter was frustrated and said, “I want to come again,”
and for some reason she vowed to get revenge. Those eyes were serious. Daughter, this is not a tug-of-war contest. We stuffed the trash into a bag, dangled the aroma lamp from her hand, and returned to Nerima Station as a family. My daughter’s hand, which I held, was warm like a hand warmer.

Reflecting on my experience last time, this time I made a donation equivalent to the admission fee in advance. I tried to eat, drink, and shop as much as possible on-site, and contribute to the other participants. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that I could only give money, and only a small amount at that. Is this the same thing that will be solved by money? Is happiness that is closed off to just us comfortable?

On the way home, I couldn’t stop asking myself this question as I was rocked on the train.
I felt so pathetic that I had to make excuses to myself that maybe I should at least continue participating.

Of course it was fun, but this time too, something bitter remained in my heart. I guess I’m not really suited to this kind of event. But I’m sure I’ll go again. I want to go.

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