This is the result of diversity. The beautiful country I saw when I was a child has been overrun by cockroaches. Drive these cockroaches out immediately

This is Japan. All mosques should be removed.

You won't believe this, but once a year in Japan, an entire generation goes home on the same day. It's called Coming of Age Day, the second Monday of January. Across the country, 20-year-olds put on a kimono or a suit and head back to the town they grew up in. Not their college town. Not where they live now. The town where they went to elementary school. The ceremony is hosted by your local municipality, not your university or your company. Most people keep their address registered at their parents' home, so they end up going back to where they were raised. You walk into the venue in a kimono and the room is packed with people your exact age. Some you grew up with. Some you haven't seen since you were 12. "Wait, is that you?" "You got tall." "I didn't recognize you with makeup on." The kid who sat behind you in 5th grade. Your first crush. The friend you lost touch with after middle school. Everyone is 20. Everyone is dressed up. Everyone is from here. The ceremony lasts about an hour. Local politicians give speeches no one is really listening to. The real event happens after. You step outside into the cold January air, take photos in front of the school you used to attend, and head to an izakaya. You spend the night catching up with childhood friends you haven't seen in years, talking until morning. Officially, it's just a ceremony. But it feels more like the country quietly saying: come home one more time before you fully leave. All of you. Together.

This might be hard to believe, but the people keeping Japan's kimono tradition alive are mostly young — and come from everywhere. In 1981, Japan's kimono industry was a 1.8 trillion yen business. Every Japanese woman had one. Weddings. Ceremonies. New Year's Day. A kimono was a status symbol. A family heirloom. Then Japan changed. Weddings became Western. Kimonos became expensive. Daily life moved on. By 2020, the kimono market had shrunk to 192 billion yen. One-tenth of what it was. The tradition was dying. Then something unexpected happened. A tourist put on a kimono in Asakusa, Tokyo, and posted a photo at Sensō-ji Temple. Then another. Then a million. Today in Asakusa, there are dozens of kimono rental shops. Some carry 600 kimonos in stock. You walk in without knowing Japanese. You leave 45 minutes later wearing a full kimono, with your hair styled, your shoes on. Starting from 2,500 yen. About sixteen US dollars. The staff speaks English, Chinese, Korean, French, Vietnamese, Spanish. The customers are teenagers and women in their twenties — from Tokyo, Seoul, Shanghai, Paris, Los Angeles. They walk through Nakamise Street. They take photos at the Kaminarimon gate. They buy sembei in kimono. They visit Sensō-ji in kimono. "Kimono distancing" was the phrase used five years ago to describe how young Japanese had abandoned the garment. Now, young Japanese women put on kimonos for the first time because they saw a photo of it on Instagram. The Japanese stopped wearing kimonos. The world started.

Appreciating a culture and achieving true coexistence: this is a textbook example. Donning a kimono properly and joining in the Bon Odori. Japan is always open-armed to visitors who follow local customs