Japan arrives before the plane does. At cruising altitude, somewhere above the Luzon Strait, the shift for me begins. Time zone. Currency. Apps. In four hours, I move from pesos to yen, from “Kuya, traffic ba?” (Brother, is traffic bad?) to near silence. By the time the wheels kiss the Narita runway, I’m already recalibrated to a different tempo of life.

Manila lives out loud. Conversations spill into the street. Plans bend. And somehow, time stretches. Tokyo, by contrast, moves like a metronome. Everything has its slot, its signal, its precise moment to arrive. After almost a decade of flying back and forth, the adjustment no longer feels abrupt and happens almost automatically.

I close Grab and open my Suica app. With one swipe, I replace the easy banter of a Manila driver with the steady ping of a Tokyo train gate. For many of us who move between the Philippines and Japan, the gesture signals more than a change in transport but also a shift in posture, pace, and expectations.

In that moment, I’m reminded that the real weight we carry isn’t in our overhead bins, but in the quiet work of moving between two societies that communicate differently. The Philippines and Japan can feel worlds apart, even if they’re separated by only a short nap and a paper cup of airplane coffee.

I live in the “and.” Not here or there. Not this or that.

Like many who move between the Philippines and Japan, I’ve learned to live in between; navigating not just different legal systems and economies, but different ways of listening, working, and belonging, balancing the pull of both without ever fully letting go of either.

Full circle: From Shizuoka to Tokyo

This year is a little more meaningful than most. 2026 marks 70 years since the Philippines and Japan rebuilt their relationship after the war. For me, Japan first stopped being just another country and became part of my everyday life 22 years ago, long before I became a lawyer. 

It was the fall of 2004 when I arrived in Shizuoka as an exchange student, eager to study International Relations and make sense of the theories that explained how countries relate to one another. Back then, “Philippines–Japan relations” was like a bridge explained in diagrams, not in footstep. Today, after living in Tokyo for nearly a decade as a Registered Foreign Attorney, those theories have become my daily reality. I am no longer just studying the bridge; I cross it every day.

The Poetry of the Bunôt 

Much has changed since then. Just the other day, amidst the gleaming glass and quiet luxury of the Tokyo Midtown Design Hub, the Philippine Embassy in Japan kicked off the celebrations for the 70th anniversary of our friendship. The centerpiece was an exhibition titled “The Philippine Coconut: Tree of Life, Seed of Innovation.” 

There is a quiet poetry in seeing the humble coconut — a constant fixture of my childhood beach trips and the source of the bunôt (husk) we used to polish our classroom floors — reimagined through a Japanese lens of precision and engineering. Seeing coconut coir (husk fiber) transformed into geotextiles for Japan’s flood control felt like a metaphor for our bilateral journey. What was once viewed as a simple raw material is now part of a shared solution, refined through collaboration, shaped by mutual strengths, and used to protect a future we both depend on. Like a seedling planted in scarred earth in 1956, our relationship required decades of quiet, careful tending before we could finally arrive at a partnership built on shared ideas, innovation, and responsibility for the seas that connect our two island nations.

Beyond the script

From my vantage point, splitting time between a Makati boardroom and an Akasaka law office, I see this integration in the “fine print” of the lives I encounter.

Two decades ago, the Filipino presence in Japan was often understood through a narrow lens. Many Filipinos were most visible in factories, care work, and service industries — roles that mattered, sustained families, and kept communities running. But that visibility left little space for the many other skills, ambitions, and stories Filipinos carried with them.

Over time, that picture has grown richer. Today, the Filipino community in Japan reflects a far broader spectrum of experience and expertise. I see this in the community I helped start — Filipino Professionals in Japan — which now brings together nearly 200 engineers, professors, accountants, bank executives, researchers, and other professionals working across the country.

The perspective has evolved. Our Japanese partners increasingly engage with the Philippines not only as a source of talent, but as a peer with ideas, leadership, and a shared stake in shaping the future.

But while this shift is visible in titles, roles, and partnerships, the deepest measure of integration lies elsewhere. It shows up in everyday life, in ways that are easy to miss if you’re not looking for them. You hear it in quiet moments when people stop explaining themselves and simply understand each other. Not just in offices or meetings, but in schoolyards, around dinner tables, and in the small rhythms of family life.

You see it in the 350,000 Filipinos who now call Japan home, building lives that feel ordinary in the best sense of the word. And you see it most clearly in the growing “Japino” generation — children of Filipino and Japanese parents — who carry this relationship naturally, without effort. For them, living between cultures isn’t a choice or an identity to manage. It’s simply who they are. (READ: Carlos Teraoka: Why Emperor Akihito met with this Japino from Baguio)

Living inside the house

The theme of this 70th anniversary is “Weaving the Future Together.” It’s an apt phrase, but weaving isn’t just a poetic image but a meticulous work. Anyone who has watched fabric being made knows it doesn’t come together all at once. The threads have to be pulled tight, aligned, and worked through slowly. The strength of the cloth comes from that steady tension, built over time, with patience and care.

In this column, I want to move past the handshakes, the photo ops, and the carefully worded statements. Of course, the lawyer in me will always pay attention to policy and fine print — but my heart is tuned to the lives unfolding beneath them.

Together, we’ll pay attention to the small, human moments that actually shape the Philippines–Japan relationship: how we learn to trust one another, how Japan’s aging society finds new energy in the Philippines’ youthful one, and what “justice” feels like for families finding their way through two sets of laws.

Watching the sun set over Tokyo after the Midtown event, it hit me: we are no longer just the “raw material” of the past. Like the coconut coir in the exhibition, we have been transformed into the high-tech fabric holding the shorelines of a shared future together.

Seventy years have given our diplomatic relationship a strong foundation, even if the house itself is still taking shape. Through Between Islands, I want to share the lived stories of those moving through its rooms — people whose everyday choices, struggles, and small acts of care are slowly turning a solid structure into a place that feels like home. – Rappler.com

Ricky Aringo Sabornay is a cross-border lawyer who moves between the Philippines and Japan, helping people navigate not just different legal systems, but different ways of thinking. He runs Sabornay Law, a member firm of Uryu & Itoga, where his work sits at the intersection of two legal systems and two cultures that don’t always speak the same language. Connect with him on LinkedIn.