RUNNING viral on Netflix this month is a show about children being sent on an errand or given tasks that would otherwise be appropriate for boys or girls of legal age in the more developed nations.
The title in English is Old Enough; in Japanese, it is known as Hajimete no Otsukai, translated as “My First Errand.” It is an old series but in a world that has become dangerous for children or youth, the documentary is a fresh look on how cultures differ from each other in terms of child-rearing. What is most shocking perhaps about Old Enough is that the children who are sent on a “mission” are truly young—from two and a half years of age to four-year-old boys and girls.
In one episode, a boy who looks like a baby (and the narrator calls him so—an aka-chan) walks for a kilometer to look for sweet curry, a flower for the grandmother’s home shrine, among other things.
The problem with this initial example is not so much the tasks—they are simple enough—but the fact that the boy is doing it alone, on top of the distance of the store from his home. If that is not enough, he has to cross a road, for which he is trained by his mother to carry a yellow flag he can wave to alert oncoming vehicles.
Of course, our heart goes out for this little boy. We cheer him on and, for the non-Japanese, many things run across our mind: Are Japanese streets safe for children so young to be walking alone? Will he be
able to make it home? Then the judgmental part comes in—if ever some harm comes upon him, what will the mother feel? Will she feel some guilt? Will
her husband disown her? Will the community condemn her?
Unbridled charm is the gift of this documentary. Children are natural survivors but set in Japanese society, they already show the very essence of humanity that works well for the person in that society: the persistence or “gaman,” the politeness and the existing protocol for respect, and industry. One little girl, for example, stops along the way and engages the crew documenting her. She speaks straight and expresses a charming predisposition in her ability to explain where she is going and why she is alone.
But this show about children is also about adults or, specifically, parents who are instilling in their children the lessons that they are expected to know as responsible adult citizens. It is perhaps much too early an expectation for parents to assume that their children will know what to do when the field becomes “hostile” to their young minds. Will they know how to improvise?
A little girl does the chores assigned to her very quickly until she reaches a cabbage patch. She remembers one errand—to get a cabbage. Does she remember being told that the vegetables are there already in the shed? Anyway, the girl sees a cabbage and she begins to pull the head from the garden. It is tough. She twists the cabbage from its stem but it has been some 30 minutes already and it is getting dark. She looks up and her eyes catch those of the cameraman. Will she seek help? Naah, she goes back and does one mean pull and the cabbage releases itself for her.
The tasks of paying for an item, or asking for the right commodity are mundane enough even for the young minds. But what if the errand is asking the little girl to bring to a pregnant mother a special piece of clothing, called a “haramaki” or a cloth used to wrap around the belly? She has another complex task, which is to put on the head of the jizo—the guardian deity for children, travelers and home—a kazajizo or straw hat. The priceless gem of an image in this episode is that of the girl who, after placing the straw hat on the head of this childlike manifestation of Buddhist divinity, gives the statue a final check if things are alright.
But what about the boy who is sent home to prepare the juice for the family and the workers picking oranges from the plantation? He arrives
home and gathers the containers needed to produce the juice but somewhat he remembers something. He then goes out and spends an hour trying to catch his pet dog with a net. He returns to the house and the phone rings, and it is his mother reminding him of the task. Instead of working on the juicemaker, he looks for his water gun and goes out to play again until the phone rings again. This time, a stern voice from the mother urges him to finish the task, which begins at 10 in the morning and gets completed finally in the afternoon.
The charm quotient of the children documented cannot be ignored. We need, however, to remind ourselves that there is no perfect society, however child-friendly, for young would-be citizens of any nation. The rapid industrialization of Japan has put a burden on the family to stay nuclear. Shot mostly in the “inaka” or countryside, Old Enough shows an idealized childhood where the adult citizens are ready to protect the young boys and girls. In big cities, grandparents have already disappeared and the children recognize their parents only with the grandparents referred to in terms of their residences. Children in Japan from a particular social strata also face a continuing search for educational excellence. Outside of the regular classes in elementary and high school, Japanese children have to go through “juku,” translated as “cram” or, more positively, “review” classes. This is to ensure that they pass the tough entrance exams to universities. Failing to do so, these young men and women are addressed as “ronin,” masterless samurai, to refer to the fact that there is no educational institution to give them identity.
On a spectrum, the Japanese children occupy an extreme point compared to the Filipino children who, despite the meager salaries of parents, are given nannies or caregivers. These hapless big sisters carry the bags for their small ward, feed them like birds during breaks, situations that look obscene when placed side by side with the toddlers in a Japanese home who are urged to bring a father’s dirty uniform to a laundry.
Old Enough has begun streaming on Netflix this month.