by Ali Syarief
There are small things in everyday life that we tend to take for granted. Yet sometimes, those seemingly insignificant things reveal something profound about the way a society sees the world.
One of them is the simple act of counting.
For most of us, counting is straightforward: one, two, three. A fish is a fish, whether it is swimming in the sea or lying on a plate. Its shape may change, but it remains the same fish.
Japanese, however, does not always see things quite that simply.
In Japanese, the way an object is counted can depend on its shape, size, nature, and condition. People are counted differently from animals. Small animals have one counter, while large animals such as horses and elephants have another. Long, slender objects have yet another.
And then there is tuna.
A tuna swimming in the ocean is counted one way. Once it has been caught, another counter may be used. Cut it into a particular form, and the counter changes again. Package it for sale, and the language changes once more. Finally, when it reaches the dining table as a piece of sashimi, it is counted differently yet again.
The tuna has not changed its identity.
But the language has changed the way it is perceived.
This is where language becomes fascinating.
Language is not merely a tool for transmitting information. It is also a kind of cultural lens through which people organize and interpret the world around them.
The Japanese way of counting suggests that the question is not simply:
“How many are there?”
It can also be:
“What is it now?”
Is it alive? Is it large or small? Is it long and slender? Has it been caught, cut, packaged, or prepared for consumption?
The answer determines how it is counted.
At first, such a system may seem unnecessarily complicated to a foreign learner. Why not simply say “one” and be done with it?
But perhaps that complexity contains its own kind of beauty.
It reminds us that things cannot always be understood by quantity alone. Form, function, condition, and context matter.
And that lesson extends far beyond language.
Human beings, too, are never simply “one person.”
A man may be a son to his parents, a husband to his wife, a father to his children, a teacher to his students, a colleague to one person, and a friend to another.
He is still one human being.
But the meaning of that one human being changes according to the relationship and the context.
The same is true in public life.
A politician is not merely an individual. He is also a holder of public office, a representative of voters, a wielder of authority, and a person whose decisions may affect millions.
A journalist is not simply someone who writes words on a page. A journalist occupies a particular position in relation to facts, sources, power, and the public.
Context changes how we understand people.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet lessons hidden inside the seemingly complicated Japanese system of counters:
Do not be too quick to define something merely by its outward appearance.
The tuna swimming in the sea and the tuna served on a plate are, biologically speaking, the same creature. Yet the language treats them differently because their circumstances have changed.
So it is with people.
We often argue because we forget that circumstances can change the meaning of what we see.
Learning another language, therefore, is not merely an exercise in memorizing vocabulary and grammar. It is an invitation to step outside our own habits of thought.
We discover that the way we have learned to categorize the world is not the only way the world can be understood.
Perhaps this is why learning a foreign language can also be an exercise in humility.
We begin with the assumption that our way is obvious.
Then another language quietly tells us:
Wait. Look again.
A fish may be one thing when it is swimming, another when it is caught, another when it is cut, and yet another when it is placed on your plate.
The object has not necessarily changed.
What has changed is the way we see it.
And perhaps that is where the deeper lesson lies.
Much of human misunderstanding begins not because reality has changed, but because we have changed the lens through which we look at it.
