Decembar 29, 2025

In today's global marketplace, words travel faster than meaning.

"Organic."
"Artisan."
"Handmade."
And increasingly, "Japanese."

These words suggest authenticity and tradition.
But when a label spreads faster than its definition, something quietly breaks.

This is not only Japan's problem.
It is a question for anyone who values authenticity in what they choose.

Matcha offers one of the clearest examples of how global demand can become a double-edged sword.

Over the past decade, global demand for matcha has exploded.
Matcha lattes at Starbucks, matcha desserts, matcha smoothies—demand has far outpaced Japan's traditional production capacity.

On the surface, this looks like pure success.
A seller's market. Unlimited growth.

But beneath this boom, a quiet crisis has been unfolding.

Kagoshima's Rise—and What It Reveals

Thirty years ago, Kagoshima made a strategic bet.

While Shizuoka—Japan's historic tea heartland—struggled to mechanize production on mountainous terrain, Kagoshima invested heavily in flat-land mechanization. The result was dramatic: Kagoshima became Japan's top tea producer, leveraging economies of scale that traditional regions could not match.

This was not an accident. It was strategic foresight.

But this domestic shift coincided with something far larger: the global matcha explosion.

As Starbucks and countless cafes worldwide embraced matcha, demand surged beyond what Japan could supply. For producers, this seemed like a dream scenario—make it, and it will sell.

Yet this is precisely where the danger emerged.

When demand exceeds supply and no clear definition exists, the market fills the gap in unpredictable ways.

Here is the fundamental problem matcha faces:

There is no international definition of what "matcha" actually is.

This absence creates a vulnerability that quietly erodes everything Japan has built.

As global demand surged, the market adapted freely.
If it was green and finely powdered, it could be called "matcha."

Today, powders made from mulberry leaves are sold as Mulberry Matcha.
The logic is simple: it's green, it's powder, why not call it matcha?

Most consumers never question this.
They believe they are choosing something authentic—without realizing the word guiding their choice has lost its anchor.

The Uji Trademark Crisis

Perhaps the most striking example of this vulnerability is what happened to Uji.

Uji is not just a place name. For centuries, it has been synonymous with Japan's highest-quality tea. Uji matcha represents not just a product, but accumulated knowledge, terroir, and cultural heritage.

Yet the name "Uji" has already been trademarked overseas—by companies with no connection to Japan.

This is not theft in the traditional sense.
It is something more insidious: cultural displacement through market mechanics.

When cultural names become generic labels, the culture attached to them begins to disappear.

The matcha story reveals a pattern that repeats across industries:

When global demand explodes and definition is absent:

1. Anything can be labeled to meet that demand
2. Cultural meaning fades
3. Consumers lose the ability to choose consciously

This is not a matcha problem.
It is a recognition problem.

The question is not whether products from other countries are inferior.
The question is: when everything can be called "matcha," what does the word actually mean?

And if it means nothing, what happens to the culture it once represented?

This story may already feel familiar.

"Wagyu" was once understood as Japanese beef, raised under specific conditions in Japan.
Today, Wagyu exists everywhere.

Australian Wagyu.
American Wagyu.
Wagyu burgers at fast-food chains.

When you order "Wagyu" today, do you know what you are actually eating?

The issue is not that beef raised outside Japan cannot be high quality.
The issue is that the name traveled faster than understanding.

"Wagyu" became a style, not a place.
And when that shift happens, culture becomes commodity.

Here, a powerful contrast appears.

Matcha and French wine share striking similarities:

・ Both have centuries of history
・ Both gained explosive global demand
・ Both can technically be produced outside their country of origin

Yet their outcomes could not be more different.

Matcha has largely become a flavor.
French wine has remained a culture.

The reason is not quality.

French wine did not survive because it was inherently "better."
Matcha did not struggle because it became "worse."

The difference lies in how recognition was protected.

The Question That Protected Wine

France refused to let wine become a generic category.

Champagne was never treated as a "style" of sparkling wine anyone could make.
Burgundy was never reduced to a taste profile that could be replicated anywhere.

Through Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée (AOC) and decades of education, French wine anchored itself to place.

Over time, consumers learned to ask not:
"Is it good?"

But:
"Where is it from?"

That single question—repeated millions of times—protected wine as culture, not commodity.

It created a framework where origin mattered more than generic labels.

This contrast is not limited to tea or wine.
Japanese knives now stand at the same crossroads.
Global demand for Japanese knives has never been higher.
Yet the term "Japanese knife" is increasingly used to describe:

・ A shape
・ A type of steel
・ A visual aesthetic

Rather than:

・ A place
・ A lineage
・ A craftsman
・ Accumulated knowledge passed through generations

When everything can be called "Japanese," the word stops helping consumers make meaningful choices.
This is the moment when culture begins to thin.
French wine survived by anchoring value to origin.
The question remained: "Where is it from?"
Japanese knives now face the same choice:
To become a generic category in a global marketplace—
Or to remain a culture defined by place, people, and the knowledge they carry.

A common response to these problems is to suggest stricter standards or certifications.

But standards focus on specifications.
And specifications can be replicated.

Given enough time and investment, anyone can meet technical benchmarks.
When that happens, craftsmanship becomes a commodity.

Culture does not survive through measurements alone.

It survives through recognition, context, and understanding.

It survives when people ask:
Not "What is this made of?"
But "Who made this, and where?"

KIREAJI does not exist simply to sell knives.

It exists to ensure that Japanese knives remain Japanese—not as a style, but as a culture.

That is why we focus on:

Clear origins – Every knife is connected to a specific place and maker
Direct relationships with craftsmen – Not through distributors, but through trust built over time
Education instead of discounts – We help people understand what they are choosing
Stories instead of slogans – Context matters more than marketing

We do not tell people what to buy.
We help them understand what they are choosing.

Because in a global market where labels travel faster than meaning, silence also shapes outcomes.

If we do not explain what "Japanese" means in the context of knives, the market will define it for us.
And that definition may have nothing to do with the culture we are trying to protect.

This is not only Japan's story.

It is a question for anyone living in a world of infinite choice, where words like "authentic," "artisan," and "Japanese" appear on everything.

When you pick up something labeled "Japanese," do you know what that word represents?

Is it a place?
A person?
A tradition passed down through generations?

Or is it simply a marketing term—a style that can be replicated anywhere?

Your awareness is not a small thing.

It is the difference between a label—and a legacy.

And in a global marketplace where culture can disappear quietly, one choice at a time, that difference matters more than we might think.