I didn't know that a traditional gift between men in Japan was typically alcohol. The first time I realized this was when I told my Japanese father-in-law that I was going to visit my family in the US. He and my mother-in-law wanted to send gifts to my parents because they had not met each other yet (long story—maybe I will share in a future post).
I noticed two things when I got the gifts from my wife's parents. On one hand my mother-in-law wanted to give my parents snacks and tea that are famous in her region. It was very reminiscent of every gift I ever got from others in Japan—aside from a hand towel that I got from a fellow teacher (I will get into that later).
My father-in-law, on the other hand, wanted to give my dad a bottle of very expensive-looking whiskey. My father—a Muslim imam. In contrast, when my father had come for the first time to visit his granddaughter, his idea of a gift for my father-in-law was a jacket.
Both ideas are valid within their own cultures, but both were unintended faux pas. However, even with the social anxiety I am full of, I could not blame either of them for what they wanted to share. Because had it not been for my wife and me, both of these men—exotic to each other—would have never had to think about the cultural sensitivities of gift giving.
Gift-Giving Culture in Japan: The Driving Forces
In the United States the ideal gift is one that usually tells the recipient that you know them on a personal level—their tastes, their quirks, or even something more intimate. The idea is typically followed by "Oh, so-and-so would love this!" or "Wouldn't this go really well with that thing they have!" or "I remember you talking about how you wanted to travel, so I got you this."
In Japan, the ideal gift is appropriate for the relationship, the occasion, and the recipient's position. The goal is also to minimize any burden or hassle on both parties. There are two driving concepts that would guide anyone who needs to get a gift for someone.
義理 (ぎり・giri) translates to "moral obligation"—the duty you feel toward the people around you, from immediate family out to society at large. At its simplest, it's being there for people when they need you. Do it consistently, with genuine care, and you earn the compliment 義理堅い (giri-gatai)—"firm in giri." If you know some Japanese, you might recognize the kanji from Valentine's Day: 義理チョコ (giri-choco), the chocolate women give to men, with the favor returned a month later on White Day. (Full breakdown of Japanese Valentine's Day here.)
恩 (おん・on): machine translation gives you "a debt of gratitude," but it runs deeper. Where 義理 is the duty you owe by your place in someone's life, 恩 is what you feel when they actually do something for you—often something you never asked for. It comes in all sizes. There's the lifelong 恩 you carry for a parent, a mentor, a teacher—never fully repaid, only honored. And there's the everyday kind: a coworker covering your mistake, an encouraging note tucked into your lunch, a neighbor bringing dinner when the house has the flu. Each one is a quiet obligation—not a burden, but a thread to the person who did the kindness. The bigger the 恩, the longer the thread.
Take both of the concepts and fuse them with "恩義がある" which can mean "I owe them big time." This concept combines both the obligation and the feeling you get when you owe someone, and attaches it to the duty one feels in typical Japanese fashion.
All of this trickles down to the final term in my interpretation, which is 恩返し (おんがえし・on-gaeshi). This is the act of returning one's favor or gratitude. And this is where we finally get to what you came for.
Clash of the Cultures: The Unreturnable Favor
As an American I was taught that when you enter a building it is common courtesy to hold the door for people if they are a reasonable distance away. There are no debts of gratitude, maybe a thank you, and maybe the person who was extended the courtesy pays it forward by holding the door for someone else.
One caveat is that in traditional American culture, you hold the door open for someone while also allowing them to enter before you do. The courtesy is the door and possibly a spot in line if you are at a store or service center. I do not do this. So, for clarity when I hold the door for someone I hold it open until they reach the door and can keep it open for themselves so that it doesn't slam in their face. It's the bare minimum.
I have lived in Japan for the past nine years and I have noticed that people don't hold the door for others. I have my speculation as to why—one being that culturally speaking Japanese doors open sideways so there is no reason to hold anything, but who knows. Even if you are right behind them, you could say hello to them, and if they see you about to enter, they will not hold the door for you.
When I learned about Japanese concepts of 恩・義理・恩返し the reactions I got when I held the door open for people finally made sense. I was invoking those concepts, but the transaction of holding the door for someone—especially the way I do it—is one way. They cannot return anything beyond a thank you. It puts them in a weird spot, but I have already moved on and forgotten about it.
I joked with my wife once asking her if everyone I held the door for felt that 恩義がある (they owed me). Her reaction was, "It's not that deep."
Gift-Giving Framework
The goal of gift-giving in Japan is to avoid causing the recipient any kind of trouble (迷惑・めいわく・meiwaku). The giver picks something with careful consideration (気遣い・きづかい・kizukai) so that the gift lightens the burden (負担・ふたん・futan) of a return gift, rather than adding to it.
The underlying principle is that the tone of the gift should match the relationship dynamic and the type of obligation being honored. You're choosing something accessible in both taste and price—something that could realistically be returned in kind.
If someone receives a gift that's unique or somehow can't be reciprocated, it puts them in a moral quandary. The gift should allow the 恩義 (おんぎ・ongi) debt to be settled—at least the kind of 恩義 that can be settled, not the lifelong kind we covered earlier.
Gift Types
Omiyage (お土産・おみやげ)—the literal translation is "honorable products of the land." It's usually given after someone comes back from a trip, and should reflect its story: "I went to Nagoya, and these snacks are a specialty from there." The gift should be of the place, not just from the place.
Food items with a long shelf-life dominate the selection, but there are exceptions. One year, a school principal went to Korea and came back with little nail clippers for everyone. It was actually a really good gift, and I still use mine to this day.
You don't have to go out of your way either—omiyage shops are abundant at train stations and airports, and every corner of Japan has its specialty items waiting for you at these shops. The shops also take care of the packaging and presentation. So, all you really have to do is give the gift.
Who Do You Give To?
There are two groups of people you give to. In a company context, they are the inner circle and the broader department. For me, the inner circle (内・うち・uchi) is the English teachers I work with directly. The outer circle (外・そと・soto) is everyone else.
The inner circle omiyage should be slightly better than the communal ones. The gifts don't have to be expensive, but the costs add up—especially when you're buying for everyone: inner circle, outer circle, friends, and family. I once overheard teachers talking about how they often have to spend 20,000 to 30,000 yen on omiyage alone. Thankfully there is a workaround.
Secret Travel
There's been a trend over the years for people to go on trips and tell no one. The trip falls on a weekend, and nobody is the wiser. There have been countless times when colleagues quietly pulled me aside and handed me an omiyage, saying something like, "No one knows I went to Okinawa, but here's something from there. Don't tell anyone."
The logic is: when you travel on your own time and no one is affected by your absence, what's the harm in skipping omiyage for the outer circle? The expectation only creeps in when people know you went.
And people will notice. If you took time off during the work week, your absence gets clocked even if it created no extra work for anyone. They might ask where you were when you get back, and it'll be awkward. You'll earn yourself the "Oh, you went and had fun while we stayed back and worked" vibes.
So my rule of thumb: if you took paid leave, bring something back. If you announce the trip—"I'm going to Kyoto this holiday," "I'm heading home for spring break"—bring something back. For my trips home, my go-to omiyage is the snack-sized Cheez-It bags.
Celebration Gifts
Celebration gifts (お祝い・おいわい・oiwai) mark all kinds of milestones and events—weddings, new babies, graduations, that time you passed your driver's license test. The gift is usually a physical thing—most often money, which we'll get to—but not always. In my family, an oiwai almost always means a trip to a restaurant, where whoever is celebrating will ご馳走する (ごちそうする・gochisou-suru)—treat the family to a meal.
The gift is secondary, a token of the feeling being expressed. My father-in-law often pats his chest over his heart and says, "My feelingを伝える."
I'd heard that Japanese people express themselves indirectly—something I misinterpreted as passive aggression. Teachers here rotate schools every few years, and I'd just gotten news I was rotating out. Before I left, a teacher I'd built good rapport with gave me a very nice hand towel. I thought he was telling me I was really sweaty. I later found out that a hand towel symbolizes the sadness of parting ways—it's there to wipe the tears from the goodbye.
Celebratory Money Gifts
For most other milestones, people give money. But just because money is easier doesn't mean you get to slack off—there are rules.
First, the bills should be crisp and new. A fresh bill symbolizes preparation: it says you saw this happy day coming and got ready for it ahead of time. The unspoken message is, "Although it is only money, I took the time to carefully prepare it for you." If you go to a bank, you can even ask for fresh gift-giving bills, called 新札 (しんさつ・shinsatsu).
The biggest faux pas come from the amounts. There's a whole bundle of dos, don'ts, and if-then statements—maybe a future post—but the simplest rule comes down to Japan's obsession with puns. The numbers 4 and 9 are unlucky. Four (四・shi) shares its pronunciation with the word for death (死). Nine (九・ku) shares its pronunciation with the word for suffering (苦). Gift amounts containing either number are to be avoided, and this is especially true for weddings.
If you're invited to a Japanese wedding, you'll notice there are no gift registries the way there are in the US. The gift is cash. On top of the unlucky numbers, even amounts are also avoided—an even number can be split equally, and you do not want to symbolically split the couple. In fact, anything that implies a cutting of ties is off the table. No swords, no knives. Even wedding invitations are written without punctuation, so that nothing comes to a full stop.
So if you're staring at an empty envelope wondering what goes in it: 30,000 yen, in three crisp 10,000 yen bills. That's the answer. Family member or the boss? It goes up to 50,000. The numerology runs deeper than this, but as a visitor to the culture, three clean bills will serve you fine.
The flip side of that rule shows up where you'd least expect it—funerals. There you use worn, used bills on purpose. Fresh bills would say you saw the death coming and got ready for it, which is the last thing you want to imply. If all you've got is crisp ones, folding a bill in half does the job.
When my daughter was born, we received envelopes from all kinds of people. I loved that we got money, but something interesting was on each and every envelope—a return address. It wasn't a formality: these gifts come expecting something back, worth about half of what you got.
The Return Gift: Okaeshi (お返し・おかえし・okaeshi)
The etiquette around return gifts is generally simple. Keep the return as humble as possible. Do not give them something worth more than the gift you got from them. Outspending them sends the wrong message—you're not calling them cheap, are you?
When we got gifts from coworkers and friends for our baby, we first kept track of everything: the gifts, who gave them, and how much they gave. The average gift was 10,000 yen—a single bill. The idea is to return half the value of the gift as a thank you.
A quick side note: there's an unwritten rule loosely followed across all types of gifts. People avoid giving clothes. Everyone's fashion sense is subjective and unique, and given the indirect nature of Japanese communication, someone receiving a scarf or a jacket might take it the wrong way—that their style sucks. It also puts pressure on the recipient. Should they wear the gift you got them every time they see you? I can guarantee they will think that.
That was why I had a facepalm moment when I found out my dad got my father-in-law a jacket. I wasn't back home to advise him, and I'd taken for granted just how much weight a first in-person meeting carries. In the winter, I never saw my father-in-law without the jacket, and scout's honor, he seems to actually love it. So my dad may have lucked out in a sense.
So what are you supposed to give as a return gift? Should you get them 5,000 yen worth of mochi? You can, but no—especially considering shelf-life. The cool thing about Japan is that they have a store for pretty much everything. Gift-giving is taken so seriously that there are entire gift specialty shops—not the souvenir shops you find in hotel lobbies with postcards, but full shops with consultants who help you find the right gift for the right person and occasion.
By far the most common return gift is a prepaid catalog. You put down the money—5,000 yen, say—and you can send the catalog or hand-deliver it in a paper gift bag. The recipient chooses what they want. There's no guesswork, and it's a lot classier than a gift card.
Ochugen and Oseibo
In the US, there's really only one major gift-giving occasion outside of weddings, birthdays, and milestone events: Christmas. You begin shopping for people on your list as soon as Halloween ends, rushing to get the best deals for everyone on your list.
Who do you choose for the list? 恩義がある人—people you feel obligated to show appreciation to. Now take Christmas and split it into two occasions: the mid-year and year-end gift-giving traditions of Ochugen (お中元・おちゅうげん) and Oseibo (お歳暮・おせいぼ). Ochugen is given in July, traditionally marking the midpoint of the year and the start of the お盆 (Obon) season. Oseibo is given in December as the year closes. Both are typically consumables—premium fruit, beer sets, sweets, regional specialty foods—sent or hand-delivered to people you owe ongoing 義理 to: bosses, important clients, teachers, doctors, in-laws, and so on.
In my research for these specific gift types, I asked my colleagues about them, and they told me that nobody really gives these gifts anymore. One colleague directed me to a survey that showed the younger the age group, the less likely they were to give these gifts. Some of my older colleagues recalled receiving Ochugen and Oseibo from their parents and grandparents, but the tradition had slowly faded—to the point that, before I asked them about it, they had completely forgotten about it.
However, another colleague overheard my questions and later found me in the stairway between classes. She knew where my daughter goes to daycare and told me that, at my particular daycare, I should consider giving both mid-year and year-end gifts. Her reasoning was twofold. First, the manager is from the old generation and loves those kinds of displays of culture. Being that I'm not Japanese, the sentiment would be especially welcomed.
The second reason was that these gifts are meant to refresh and encourage the people who are doing us a favor. Those daycare teachers are doing the very difficult job of keeping track of dozens of children and their needs—and my daughter has dietary restrictions on top of that. The gift is a reaffirmation. A message that says, "I see you, I see the work you do, I know the value of what you do for us, and we thank you."
Final Thoughts
So I took the bottle of whiskey from my father-in-law and went to a gift shop to find some tea of equal value and quality. The idea was to translate the "spirit" of the gift while accounting for my father's religious considerations. The objective was to make sure the feeling my father-in-law wanted to express could still be received in kind.
When I handed the tea to my father, he smiled. And when I told him what the original gift was going to be, he laughed and said, "I like him already."
My anxieties around the proper etiquette of gift-giving had me missing the most important point. As a visitor to the culture, you are not expected to get it completely right. Showing your best effort is enough. In the US, the expression "it's the thought that counts" is usually said when the gift is a miss. But in Japan, the thought is what matters the most.
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