Heart to Home, how one can connect to their homes using bamboo

Written by: Adem Çalhanoğlu

Edited by: Thuth Htet San

I first heard about the event back in May, when Fathya—the founder and head of Creaxel—messaged me via LINE. She was reaching out for PR coverage, hoping to collaborate with APU Times, where I’d just started working as a new journalist. It felt like a good opportunity: a hands-on creative event that combined student-led action with traditional craftsmanship, and a chance to witness the university’s sustainability buzzwords put into practice.

This is my story—how I found myself sweltering in the summer heat, wandering into Room J102, not as a student looking for credit or a craft-lover hunting a new hobby, but as someone there to capture a moment worth sharing.

Fast-forward two months. Despite the earlier refusal, I decided to participate in the event anyway. They’d invited two bamboo artisans—one older (but not silver-haired old) and one young—forming your classic master-apprentice duo. The theme was “Heart to Home”, an intimate and soft concept meant to stir something inside us. I thought it’d be fun: stories, learning a few tricks, making art from bamboo and waste.

slight excitement and plenty of sweat (literally), I dragged myself through the sweltering Japanese heat to indulge in a bit of creativity.

The event took place in the J building, the university’s recent pride and joy—” sustainable”, “green”, the whole package. Room J102 was big and sprawling, with movable tables and chairs on wheels, clearly engineered for the free-flowing, collaborative vibe. At reception, I was warmly greeted, registered, and assigned to Group 4—chosen at random, apparently, though with a small nod to friend groups.

Inside, it felt like someone had transplanted a tiny art boutique into a classroom. There were balloons, bamboo baskets, traditional hand-woven wallets, and in the centre, brushes and paints for the later session. We’d be designing a piece for the upcoming Beppu Art Month in November.

The balloon caught my eye. I’ve always had this odd joy of kicking balloons around with the dramatic flair of Messi, attempting fancy footwork and juggles. After a quick solo kickabout, I made my way to Group 4’s table and waited.

Five minutes before the start, the crowd poured in— friend groups, mates, a few staff. Fathya gave me a nod of thanks, and I responded with what could only be described as a weak, burdened grin.

The event kicked off with an introduction to Creaxel’s collaboration with ECOS. I’d once helped ECOS when they were experimenting with organic, ethically-sourced boba milk tea - a thousand times better than matcha, fight me. They also ran a booth at the Tenku Festival, using recycled bottle caps and “sea glass”—bits of glass smoothed by years under the ocean.

Then came the artisans: Tsuru, the elder, with 19 years of experience, and Yuki, the apprentice, with two. They were open, generous, and happy to share their world. Hearing about how they made their crafts made me appreciate the discipline more than I expected.

Back in our group, we were asked: “What is home?” Amid the poetic meanderings, I offered something plain: “For me, home is where you can lay your back after a tiring day.” That raised a few pleasant eyebrows. As we discussed “home” across cultures and the significance of bamboo. I drew on my Vietnamese background to give a small talk on its role. Others shared too, but before we knew it, time had slipped away.

The best part? Bingo. Instead of numbers, we had a sheet of quirky questions like, “How do you read the kanji 竹?” or “Someone who’s a professional chopstick user.” —I mean,don’t all East Asians qualify? I got no bingo, though. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I didn’t care. Some people got two bingos, some six. Nash, one of the club leaders, said he'd cover their food next week. Lucky them.

Initially, we’d agreed to share the creative work. The original idea was to craft a beautiful box using a used pet capsule—something for a hamster or beetle. But the plan dissolved. Everyone started doing their own thing.

One person sculpted clay into what looked like a dragon or griffin. Another painted a huge beetle from a photo she’d taken. Two were chatting while knotting string into a bracelet. Someone else painted a geisha on a plastic plate. And me? I wrote “Fields of Anfield Road” with a purple marker, trying to give it a calligraphic flair.

Other groups were just as varied. Group 3 built a tiny house for a stuffed porcupine. Another made a food-themed sculpture using plates and bamboo. I stopped paying attention. TikTok-trendy songs looped endlessly in the background. By 5pm, the event was over. We took a group photo. I held up my plate like it was some piece of fine china. Then I slipped out.

I filled in the feedback form—“okay-ish”—wrote “none” in the comments, and left quietly. I might regret that later.

Still, it was a wonderful initiative. It brought students and local artists together. The artisans had a space to share their skills. The students walked away with something—maybe not a masterpiece, but at least a story. The organisers earned their sustainability points. In a world leaning further into pre-packaged, disposable everything, the survival of hands-on creativity feels more precious than ever. If they keep running events like this, I’ll be there—plate and all.