Welcome to the blog of the research project “Urban-rural migration and rural revitalization in Japan”. This project is funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG) and started in October 2020. Professor Cornelia Reiher (PI) and her team from the Institute of Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin investigate the impacts of urban-rural migration on rural revitalization in Kyūshū, Japan’s most southern main island. In this blog, our group will give insights into the research process and progress, present first results, share information about our field sites and on related projects and publications. It also features guest contributions by students, PhD students, colleagues and practitioners from Freie Universität Berlin, Japan and universities around the world who work on related projects focusing on urban to rural migration and rural Japan. The editor of this blog is Professor Cornelia Reiher.
Over the years that I have been researching revitalization in the Aso region in Kumamoto Prefecture one topic seemed to come up in almost every conversation – the efforts to make Aso a UNESCO World Heritage site. While the municipalities of the region have been working hard to get Aso added to the list of World Heritage sites, “surprisingly” – as noted in a blog by Aso City’s Michi no eki– it has not yet received this recognition (MICHINOEKI Aso 2021). I am biased, but anyone who has ever been to Aso must admit that it is a unique place. I still cannot get over the fact that a massive caldera is home to thousands of people. And there is of course the still very active Mount Aso sitting majestically in the middle of the caldera and lots of wonderful hot springs. The Aso region consists of seven municipalities: Aso City, Minamioguni, Oguni, Ubuyama, Takamori, Nishihara and Minamiaso. Only Aso City, Minamiaso and Takamori are located directly in the caldera but the whole region is part of the efforts to become a UNESCO World Heritage site as a volcanic region with a distinct cultural landscape (Kumamoto Prefecture 2020).
The cultural landscape mentioned here refers mainly to the grassland that covers large parts of the region. However, like so many rural areas in Japan, the region is struggling with a shrinking and aging population. For the cultural landscape this means that there are less people using and maintaining the grassland and that the forest has pushed forward reclaiming inch by inch. More than half of the area has already been lost over the last hundred years, and if nothing changes, most of the remaining grassland will disappear in the near future. The grassland of Aso has a long history, possibly dating back to the late-glacial period (Kawano et al. 2012). The protection of the grassland is therefore clearly connected to its significance as a unique ecosystem and the cultural heritage it represents. Being listed as a World Heritage site would offer protection and create new possibilities for financial support and investments. Another reason why countries might be interested in adding their sites to the list is the tourism boost they are likely to receive from the increased attention.
While working on a research project in the Kuma region, I met a researcher who supports Aso City’s efforts to get the Aso region on Japan’s Tentative List. Japan currently has 26 World Heritage sites, with four more sites on its Tentative List (MOFA 2024; Agency of Cultural Affairs n.d.). To be considered for a nomination, the site must first be included on the Tentative List that is prepared by each country. Even if a site gets on the list, it can still be a long way to the nomination. Two of the four sites on Japan’s Tentative List have been added in 1992. Nevertheless, becoming a UNESCO World Heritage site is the only way to secure the future of the grassland, this researcher told me. This would also include a boost in tourism. Tourism is deeply connected to revitalization efforts of rural areas. Because farming cannot sustain the income of the local population, tourism could be a way to stop the decline of Aso’s communities and attract new residents. Even if not so well known internationally, the Aso region has been a famous tourist destination in Japan for a long time. Still, local governments and local groups are struggling to make Aso a better place for tourists, hoping that this will make the region a better place for locals as well.
However, many people I spoke to, including government employees and people who depend on tourism for their livelihoods, were skeptical about the kind of tourism a nomination would bring. What Aso needs, I was told, are tourists who come to spend a whole week there. In other words, sustainable slow tourism. The locals voicing their concerns are not without reason. The examples of other World Heritage sites have shown that the status can come at a cost to nature and local communities. Think of the numerous news stories over the recent years about overtourism. Some places are completely overrun by tourists and need to find strategies to cope or reduce their numbers (Hall 2024). World Heritage sites are right in the middle of this trend. Paradoxically, the World Heritage status that should protect the cultural landscape could be a trigger for enormous stress on the local nature. Tourism needs infrastructure. Not only hotels, but roads, parking spaces, and toilets right up there on the mountain next to the observation deck, a government worker of Aso City explained to me with a troubled face. This means that some parts of the local nature might have to be sacrificed to meet the demands of economic interests. In recent years, semiconductor factories have been built in a town next to the Aso region, raising further questions about water use and environmental protection in the area.
The road to a nomination might still be very long for Aso. However, not only the region has a lot to gain from the status as a World Heritage site, because the cultural landscape is critically linked to the water supply far beyond the Aso area. I am curious to see how the UNESCO project in Aso will continue, what ways the proponents will find to allay the concerns of local communities, and whether being listed as a World Heritage site can really deliver the revitalization so many in the Aso region are hoping for.
Kawano, Tatsuichiro, Naoko Sasaki, Takayoshi Hayashi, and Hikaru Takahara (2012), “Grassland and Fire History since the Late-Glacial in Northern Part of Aso Caldera, Central Kyusyu, Japan, Inferred from Phytolith and Charcoal Records,” Quaternary International 254 (March):18–27. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.quaint.2010.12.008.
Signy Goto-Spletzer holds a BA and MA in Japanese Studies from the University of Vienna. Her research focuses on the implications of rural revitalization as a business model and the recovery and resilience of remote areas in Kyūshū after disasters.
One night during fieldwork in Kochi prefecture, I found myself the only guest at a hostel in the mountains of Otoyo. It is not the easiest place to get to unless you have a car, and even then, my teacher and I drove a bit back and forth before we came to the right drop-off place. I was left at the side of the road with a steep stone stair between me and the pink, wooden building I had found online earlier that week. It is called Midori no tokeidai, named after its green roofed clocktower. However, until 2006, it was known under another name: Kawaguchi Elementary School.
I have visited several Japanese elementary schools as part of international events as an exchange student and I am familiar with the design from movies, TV shows, and manga, but have never attended one myself. It was therefore a strangely familiar feeling to walk the empty halls of this hostel, looking in at the classrooms turned sleeping halls for visiting school classes. Today, the hostel is a place to stay at school excursions or for visiting sport teams. Most things are kept as they were when the building still housed students. Even the blackboards are left up. However, in contrast to a real school, you are encouraged to doodle. Midori no tokeidai was abandoned about 17 years prior to my stay in 2023. In the same year, it was taken over and renovated by I-turn migrants Yumi (or principal Yumi as she is affectively titled on the hostel website) and her husband Masaki. With games such as zōkingake rēsu or cleaning rag race, where people race against each other in the hallways while cleaning the floor with a large rag, the hostel invokes school nostalgia for visitors. “You are allowed to do the things that you would get scolded for at school, so it’s like a dream come true,” a guest remarks on a YouTube clip on the hostel homepage.
Closed schools are a typical sight in ageing and depopulated rural Japan. In the town of Otoyo alone, this elementary school is one of twelve that have closed in the last 25 years, not to mention middle and high schools. Schools are a symbol for children, the next generation and thus for the future itself. When they are closed, they are a stark reminder to residents of their uncertain future. When a new purpose is found for schools or other public buildings it is possible to reimagine the future as something new.
As seen in this blog, media (both traditional and social), and in scholarship, repurposing abandoned buildings in rural Japan has gained much attention in recent years. In addition to DIY projects for urban migrants, vacant houses are increasingly renovated and turned into guest houses, cafés, and art installations (Platz 2024). As telecommuting has been mentioned as a possible solution to depopulation of settlements, a need for office space has also emerged (Matsushita 2022). I saw several schools, kominka and an old factory in Kōchi being used for this purpose. As shown in a workshop in Yamagata (Takahashi et al. 2014), there are many more options for the use of vacant houses, ranging from community centers to libraries to demolition for the construction of golf courses. While community-led initiatives have proven to be positive in both finding creative solutions and fostering community spirit, many emphasize the need for leadership, especially in revitalization projects that focus on repopulation. It takes a village, but it also takes a driving force, which scholars refer to as a “star migrant” (Yamagishi and Doering 2025). This represents both a possibility and a vulnerability for communities striving to repopulate.
It is important to remember that there were eleven other elementary schools in Otoyo that have not fared as well as the hostel. While the successful cases are uplifting, I must admit that I am not convinced they are as significant. The undeniable truth is that not every place can become the next big tourism destination and even fewer are likely to experience significant repopulation. I wonder how we can think about those places, and what they mean for the future of rural Japan. The tension, between celebrating success stories and recognizing the realities of decline, is something I struggle with. While the story of Midori no tokeidai and its owners is a rare case of someone choosing to build a life in a depopulated village, most places will not be so fortunate. If we focus only on the positive cases, we risk overlooking the many places and people left behind. At the same time, looking at these exceptions offers a glimpse into what’s possible, even if only for a few.
As I was alone that night in the hostel, I stayed in what used to be the main office, just off the entrance and next to the large communal kitchen. In the evening, principal Yumi joined me for a meal and a couple of drinks. Her husband was in the hospital, so it was just the two of us. She told me about their move from Osaka to Otoyo, drawn by the town’s excellent river rafting conditions, and about her involvement in an NPO focused on attracting urban migrants. It is just one of her many social engagements. For Japanese urbanites looking to relocate and for Otoyo Yumi might indeed be a “star migrant”. Midori no tokeidai is an inspiring place, and I look forward to another visit next time I am in the area.
References:
Matsushita, K. (2022). How the Japanese workcation embraces digital nomadic work style employees. World Leisure Journal, 65(2), 218–235.
Platz, A. (2024). From social issue to art site and beyond – reassessing rural akiya kominka. Contemporary Japan, 36(1), 41–56. https://doi.org/10.1080/18692729.2024.2314331
Takahashi, R., Ishibashi, K., Sugiyama, R., & Aiba, S. (2014). ‘Akiya katsuyō machizukuri keikaku’ sakusei e no shimin sanka shuhō no kaihatsu [Development of a method for citizen participation in the creation of a “vacant house utilization community development plan”], Nihon kenchiku gakkai gijitsu hōkokushū, 20(44), p.273-278.
Yamagishi, D. & Doering, A. (2025). Dressing up the place: Urban lifestyle mobilities and the production of “fashionable” tourism destinations in rural Japan. Tourism Management, 106, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tourman.2024.104995
Julia Olsson is a first year PhD student at the Centre for East and South-East Asian Studies, Lund University in Sweden. Her main research interests include rural depopulation, rural-urban dynamics, vacancy, and post-growth futures.
If you have ever taken a train late at night through Japan’s countryside, you might know the feeling of stepping off at a nearly empty station in the freezing cold, unsure if you have arrived in the right place. That was exactly how I felt when I first arrived in Aso City. It was winter, and I had just taken a train from Kumamoto to reach this scenic region known for its caldera, vast farmland and beautiful hot springs. I was a bit worried about whether I would be able to conduct enough interviews for my master’s thesis on the professional identity of caregivers in rural Japan. My host, the owner of a guesthouse, kindly picked me up at the station, we stopped by a Family Mart to grab a quick bite (because the supermarket had already closed) and then headed to a cozy yet very cold guesthouse. Even though I was nervous about the next few weeks I would spend in this region, the kindness of the local people quickly put me at ease.
One of my most memorable visits was at a day centre, where I met a 106-year-old man. The staff told me he had no family left in Aso, so being at the centre was his main source of contact with others. When they introduced me to other patients, I was surprised by how interested they were about Austria, my home country, and they loved the Mozartkugeln (a traditional chocolate souvenir) I brought. Moments like this made me realize that even though Aso is famous for having the largest caldera in Japan, its true heart lies in personal connections. But not every visit to the various care facilities went smoothly. One day, an older woman slipped in the bathroom and needed urgent help, so we had to cancel our interview. Seeing how quickly the caregivers reacted reminded me that unexpected emergencies are a normal part of life in small, rural facilities with limited staff.
During my fieldwork, I sometimes worried about taking up too much of the caregivers’ time because they already worked long hours under a lot of stress. I usually travelled by public bus, which was difficult due to limited bus schedules, but the caregivers always welcomed me warmly. Some of the locals showed me around the caldera and explained how houses in Aso are often far apart, which creates extra travel time, especially when providing home care. One caregiver said she had to drive along long winding roads just to see a single client. In winter, heavy snowfall makes this even harder. But if they do not go, nobody else will. This sense of duty is common in rural caregiving in Aso, especially as many younger people have moved away to find jobs in bigger cities. A few caregivers told me they suffer from constant back pain caused by years of lifting and carrying patients. They worried about how much longer they could do this job once they reached their sixties. While some urban care facilities have advanced technologies, care centres in Aso typically do not. One caregiver, who came from a big city, also criticised the lower pay and fewer resources in Aso.
Generally, the caregivers were worried about the long-term impact on their bodies. One caregiver mentioned that despite enjoying some aspects of the job and making a lot of meaningful connections, she’s not sure if she would pick the same profession again if she could go back in time. The physical work is not the only challenge. Emotional labour also plays a big role in caregiving. Many elderly people in Aso have no family nearby, so caregivers become trusted companions to listen to concerns and combat loneliness. One caregiver said he locks away his own problems before work to stay cheerful for his clients. Another said she had become “like family” to a person who had no one else in town. While this closeness can be rewarding, it can also be emotionally draining. Some caregivers said they felt lonely themselves and needed small tokens of gratitude from their families and patients to keep going.
Despite these challenges, many caregivers are proud of their work. At one day centre, they organized quizzes, dancing, and karaoke so that the older patients could have some fun. It was touching to see moments where the caregivers and patients would laugh and chat happily with each other. These moments gave some lightness to the stress of juggling other parts of the job like handling heavy lifting, bathing schedules, and health checks for everyone. One caregiver said that the care profession acts as a “bridge of the community.” I indeed felt a strong sense of community in Aso. One of my research participants even drove me around when the bus did not come, and it seemed like everybody knew everybody else. This close network is important for helping elderly people in remote areas. The COVID-19 pandemic, however, had temporarily interrupted events in care facilities to bring together younger and older residents. Even during my fieldwork in 2023, a few interviews had to be cancelled when there were new COVID-19 infections in care homes.
After my field research, I wish more young people lived in places like Aso. Salaries may be lower and public services less than in cities, but there is also a strong sense of solidarity there. Many interviewees said they were very concerned about the future of the nursing profession and they wished there were strategies to make the profession more attractive to younger generations. If more young carers returned, this could address staff shortages, bring a breath of fresh air into local life and ensure that older people receive the care they deserve. In the end, I had great respect for the care workers in Aso. They manage difficult physical tasks, provide emotional support and make their patients feel good, despite their own heavy workloads. The generosity and determination I found there show that personal commitment and solidarity really do keep rural Japan alive.
Melanie Steinbrugger recently finished her MA in Japanese Studies at the University of Vienna. Her Master’s thesis explored the professional identity of rural caregivers. Starting in April 2025 she will be part of the Austrian Pavillion Team at the Ōsaka Kansai World Expo 2025.
My research focuses on urban-to-rural migrants in different municipalities in Northern Kyūshū. Initially, I was mainly interested in their lives before relocating to the countryside, the relocation process itself and their everyday life in their new rural homes. However, they are mobile in their everyday lives to shop, commute to work, further their education and organize their leisure time both within and outside the administrative borders of the rural municipality in which they have settled.
Although mobility is an important part of rural lifestyles and shapes rural places, rural communities are often portrayed as closed, static and traditional. Geographer Doreen Massey (1995) showed that the local is the complex and multi-layered result of social interactions and should be approached less as a fixed entity associated with stagnation, nostalgia and stability and more as an intersection of flows of people and objects. Milbourne and Kitchen (2014) have argued that the stabilities of rurality, associated with belonging, tradition and stasis, are both reliant on and undermined by rather complex forms of mobility. John Urry (2007) showed that places are produced through “multiple mobilities of people, but also of capital, objects, signs and information” (p. 269). Thus, rural places are characterized by a complicated interplay between mobility and fixity. The mobilities that characterize rural places include, for example, migration, tourism, everyday mobility by car, internal migration from the city to the countryside and transnational migration. And not only people are mobile, but as I showed in my book on local identity and rural revitalization (Reiher 2014), it is objects such as porcelain that travel transnationally and are charged with cultural value through these mobilities.
An example from my fieldwork will show how urban-rural migrants are mobile beyond municipal borders in their everyday lives and how this relates to social structures in rural communities. In 2022, I took a day trip with Junko. I met her for the first time in 2018. She was born and raised in the Kantō area where she later worked in fashion. When she got married and pregnant, she decided to move to the countryside to raise her child in a clean and healthy environment surrounded by nature. Together with her husband she renovated a kominka and started growing vegetables and rice. Junko baked and sold bread. After a divorce, she moved to another house and started working in a company. Since moving, she has been driving around a lot every day and is dependent on her car: First she drives 20 minutes to take her child to school. Then she drives another 30 minutes in the other direction to work. In the afternoon, she picks up her child and does her shopping on the way. To escape the gossip of her neighbors, she takes her child on weekend trips to neighboring towns. I was invited to join one of her outings. That day, we visited an artisan market in the neighboring town, which was held in a former elementary school building. Markets are hubs of mobility. Junko used to sell her home-baked bread at several markets in the region. She visited the market with me because she wanted to restart her baking business to earn extra income. According to the leaflet and map, more than 90 exhibitors, mainly from the region, were offering their handmade products. These included wooden spoons, jewelry, ceramics and homemade clothing. Most of the people were urban-rural migrants, either young families or older people, and knew each other from other markets where they either sell their own handicrafts or food, or spend time with their families on the weekends. While I enjoyed the food sold at the stalls and the live music on a small stage with Junko’s child, Junko talked to the market organizers to negotiate her next participation in the market. After a few hours of eating, shopping, listening to music and talking to many people, we drove back to Junko’s house in the mountains.
Living in rural communities means a high degree of everyday mobility. It also means different types of mobilities after social relationships have changed. These include moving house, changing jobs and leaving town at weekends to escape gossip and seek emotional support. Markets are another form of mobility that offers migrants the opportunity to meet, display and sell their products, earn extra income or simply spend their free time. Markets are mobile and at the same time places where flows of people, things and ideas come together temporarily and form new networks. While some of these mobilities are voluntary, to meet up with friends at the weekend, involuntary mobilities, e.g. to work, often take as long as a commute in Tokyo. Urban migrants in particular often feel less connected to the municipality they have moved to and more connected to “the countryside” as such, as Junko’s case shows; administrative boundaries of municipalities and prefectures do not play such a big role in their sense of belonging. The community often consists of migrants who are located in different municipalities and meet in different places run by other migrants, or at mobile events such as markets.
References:
Massey, Massey (1995), “The conceptualization of place“, in: Massey, Doreen and Pat Jess (eds.), A place in the World? Places, Cultures and Globalization, New York: Oxford University Press, pp. 45–86.
Milbourne, Paul and Kitchen, Lawrence (2014), “Rural mobilities: Connecting movement and fixity in rural places”, Journal of Rural Studies 34: 326–336.
Reiher, Cornelia (2014), Lokale Identität und ländliche Revitalisierung. Die japanische Keramikstadt Arita und die Grenzen der Globalisierung, Bielefeld: Transcript.
Urry, John (2007), Mobilities, Cambridge: Polity Press.
Yoko Iijima is associate Professor of Geography at Meiji University in Tokyo. She is currently a visiting scholar at the Freie Universität Berlin to conduct research on rural development in Germany. Professor Iijima’s areas of expertise are economic geography and political geography and the interrelationships between these two fields. She studied in Freiburg, Germany, from 2000 to 2004. During her time as a doctoral student, she investigated cross-border cooperation between Germany and Switzerland. After completing her PhD, she worked in a private research institute where she was involved in many different projects for Japanese ministries and governmental organizations in the field of regional development. She then started working at a university and became an associate professor. In the following ten years, she focused on rural areas in Europe, especially rural development in Tyrol. I spoke with Professor Iijima about the differences and similarities between rural areas in Japan and Europe, what both regions can learn from each other when it comes to promoting rural areas, and the future of rural areas in Japan and Europe.
Q: What are the differences and similarities between rural areas in Japan and rural areas in Europe?
One similarity that European countries such as Germany, Austria or Switzerland share with Japan is that the birth rate in rural areas is very low, which means that few young people live and work in rural areas and more older people live and work there. However, Japan has a much bigger problem, because its birth rate is even lower and young people from the countryside often prefer to move to Tokyo, Japan’s largest city. After graduating from school many young people prefer to work or study in Japan’s capital as there are far more job opportunities there. This has to do with Japan’s centralized state system and the fact that Tokyo is the most important city in the country. Tokyo is very different from other cities in Japan, not only is it the most populated city in Japan but it also stands out for the wide range of opportunities it offers in the fields of education and employment. In contrast, Germany has a decentralized state system and maintains many urban functions even in small and medium-sized cities as well as large cities such as Berlin, Munich, and Frankfurt. Therefore, it is possible for young people in Germany to work and continue their lives in small and medium-sized cities than in Japan.
Q: Are there things that work better in the rural areas of Europe or in the rural areas of Japan and can Europe and Japan learn something from each other?
In Europe’s rural areas, there are more initiatives led by citizens that want to promote their rural areas and bring their ideas and suggestions to the government and administration, so they work from the bottom up. I consider this as a good example for Japan to learn from in terms of rural areas and I think that bottom-up approaches to rural development would be a good model for the future. However, it is difficult to compare European countries and Japan in general because both consist of regions with their own history, culture, traditions, industries, and other regional characteristics. It cannot be assumed that successful examples from one country can be directly applied to another. Nevertheless, European countries can also learn from Japan. For example, the Japanese central and local governments have initiated large projects to improve and promote its different regions and rural areas.
Q: What does the future hold for Europe’s and Japan’s rural areas?
The already low birth rates in Japan’s rural areas will continue to fall over the next ten years and financial support by the Japanese government will probably not increase but rather decrease. There are also big debates about whether the social infrastructure in rural areas should remain as it is or whether it would be smarter to resettle people to cities. I am unfortunately very pessimistic about the future of rural Japan. For Europe, on the other hand, things might look better in the next ten years, because the European Union is investing heavily in rural infrastructure. But even in the EU there are issues to discuss, such as the regional differences within the rural regions of Europe.
Paul B. is a student intern at the Institute of Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin.
In 2021, the municipality of Minakami in central Japan has signed an agreement for a joint project of machizukuri (community planning) with a real estate company (Open House Group), a financial institution (Gunma-Bank), and a university (Tokyo University). This cooperation of business, administration, academia and finance (sankangakukin) has gained attention as a notable example of machizukuri in Japan. General topic is the revitalization of the central spa resort area, Minakami Onsen, with the project’s actual focus on the Yubara district. This project illustrates characteristics of Japanese resort towns and collaborative approaches to tackle their specific problems. In summer 2024, with the project’s planning and execution in full progress, I had the opportunity for extensive on-site research in Minakami. I participated in activities and talked to responsible persons and many citizens. Since I lived in Minakami Onsen for a couple of years, I was able to make sense of these developments to some extent. Certainly, it would need more in-depth research to get a proper understanding, especially about the formal planning process. However, I was able to gain valuable insight into realities of contemporary machizukuri in Japan. In the following, I would like to introduce Minakami and the problems the town has been facing in the past decades before I describe Minakami’s machizukuri activities in my next post.
Minakami is located 175 km from central Tokyo in the north-western corner of the Kantō-region, in Gunma prefecture. Only tunnels for railways and highway, plus a single state road lead to Niigata on the other side of the 2000 m high mountain ridge. Widespread natural forests serve as the source of Japan’s longest river, the Tone. Several dams collect water for Tokyo and the Kantō area, and the whitewater rivers provide tourist attractions. In winter, clouds from Niigata leave behind vast amounts of snow. In 2017, the area was designated as the Minakami UNESCO Eco Park. And there are a large number of onsen. Onsen (hot springs) are plentiful in Japan. Many have been developed into resort-spots, attracting people for wellness and tourism or for business and work. Onsen-gai (-streets) or onsen-machi (-towns) have a typical structure, determined by specific architecture, infrastructure and social composition. Often situated in genuine natural environment and depending on a rather uniform economy (tourism, wellness), an onsen-gai or onsen-machi forms a characteristic urban space. Minakami Onsen is such an urban space.
The name Minakami Onsen originally has been a synonym for Yubara (“field of hot water”), the central district of old Minakami, before its merger with its former neighboring communities Niiharu and Tsukiyono in 2005. After the merger the name accentuated the old Minakami, in contrast to the enhanced town of new Minakami. However, present local planning and promotion seem to tend to the original use, and I am following here in accordance. While all parts of Minakami (new) have several onsen, Minakami Onsen (Yubara) has the most prominent onsen-gai. Here, the building density is comparatively high, with large-scale hotels, guesthouses, commercial facilities and residential houses. The railway station and a touristic local shopping facility (michi no eki) are in close distance, and almost integrated parts. Contrasting the built environment, the Tone River cuts through a scenic gorge alongside Yubara, and steep slopes of forest rise on both sides.
These favorable settings of abundant nature and numerous onsen, plus easy accessibility from Tokyo via rapid train, brought Minakami Onsen a certain prosperity since the 1960s. Direct connections via Shinkansen and highway contributed to this in the 1980s. However, by the turn of the century the “golden years” had ended (as for Japan in general), and a steady economic decline began. Fewer tourists came and a good number of hotels, ryokan, and guesthouses were forced to downsize or close. Other touristic facilities, like souvenir shops, restaurants or bars, were affected as well. The number of closed or abandoned facilities in Minakami Onsen became significant, producing the atmosphere of a “ghost town,” which again reduced the town’s attractiveness. The result was a vicious circle that led to economic decline and a shrinking population.
To counter these negative developments, the administration of Minakami had to find effective measures. One attempt was the “Project for Townscape and Environmental Improvement” (machinami kankyōseibijigyō), initiated in 2005, with special focus on Yubara. In cooperation with the Waseda University Goto Laboratory (for urban and rural landscape) detailed local surveys, public discussions, workshops and other formats were conducted. The project resulted in a catalog for design improvements on buildings and infrastructure, and in provisions for citizens’ participation. Many of the suggestions have been realized afterwards. However, there were fundamental structural problems still remaining. The Minakami Urban Planning Masterplan of 2020 has declared the Minakami onsen-gai of Yubara with its connecting areas as a central touristic base, assigning special importance for development. This follows considerations for a structural segmentation of the full community territory. Facilities of administration, for example, shall be concentrated in the Tsukiyono-area, or natural farming projects in the Niiharu-area. Concerning Minakami Onsen, the existent touristic infrastructure shall be redesigned and revitalized, so that it can serve as an attractive spot for visitors and citizens, and as a connecting hub to other areas of Minakami.
I will introduce this project in more detail in my next post. To be continued …
Arne Bartzsch graduated as M.A. of Information Science and Japanese Studies from Freie Universität Berlin. He is researching topics of cultural information and local development. In Japan, he has taken part in various machizukuri activities. Knowledge transfer between Germany and South Korea about re-unification and transformation was another long-term project.
I have a love-hate relationship with fieldwork. I’m sure many researchers can relate to this, and previous authors of this blog have reported on their ups and downs in the field and after fieldwork (Klien, 2023; Luzi, 2024). I was no different. I started my research in the area of the former Fukushima nuclear exclusion zones in 2019 and have followed the lives of many of my research participants over the past five years: I observed the early courtship of a young couple in 2019 and congratulated them on their second child last Christmas. I listened to an enthusiastic civil servant explain his vision for Fukushima and watched him retire in the spring of 2024. I watched the demolition of abandoned houses and the construction of new buildings and saw the unexpected departure of old entrepreneurs and the exuberant entry of new entrepreneurs.
Throughout these events, however, I was always aware of my status as an outsider observing the field and its people and taking notes. Field researchers often reflect upon positionality and ethics: we discuss whether you should be friends with your research participants and how much you should interfere in their lives (see for example McLaughlin, 2020). I would think about whether these questions are rhetorical: Can one really examine the field without befriending the field? Nevertheless, these questions and boundaries have haunted and exhausted me over the years. I attended local barbecues and dinners of my research participants just to try to take as many notes as discreetly as possible. My research participants, of course, knew me as “Lynn, the researcher.” I never tried to hide the fact that I was researching them, although I often wished I wasn’t. I often wanted to just be their friend rather than write a dissertation about them. I often wished I could enjoy the moments without the worries of research hovering over me.
Thus, in March 2024, as my flight departed Japan for Germany, I breathed a deep, long sigh of relief – my time in the field, albeit fragmented, had finally come to an end. The long flight was of bittersweet significance as I emotionally drew closure to my position as a researcher of Fukushima and Japan. I was ready to switch off research-mode and begin writing my thesis. And after the thesis? I would return to Japan as a visitor enjoying all Japan and Fukushima offers. In the summer of 2024, however, I was unexpectedly presented with a chance to revisit my field through the university’s summer school program in collaboration with IRIDES at Sendai University. Amidst all the internal emotional conflict with the field, I joined the summer school. For ten days, I visited places new and old and listened to intellectual debates on the recovery and revitalization of Tohoku after 2011. Despite my apprehension, I was again filled with curiosities for the field – the same curiosities that first drove me to research Fukushima in 2019. New observations had led to new questions and the urge to seek answers. I was eager to learn more, to ask more questions, and to experience more of the field.
In the end, ten days was too short. On my flight back to Germany, I wondered when I would be able to return to Japan to get my new questions answered. In the end, I wonder if I will ever be able to finish my work as a field researcher. In the meantime, I am trying to finish my PhD and use the positive energy of this last and unexpected visit to my field to look at the data I collected before from a new perspective. And hopefully I will return to Japan soon, both as a friend and as a researcher.
Reference:
McLaughlin, Levi (2020), “How to do fieldwork: Studying Japan in and outside of Japan,” in: Kottmann, Nora and Reiher, Cornelia (eds.), Studying Japan: Handbook of Research Design, Fieldwork and Methods, Baden-Baden: Nomos, pp. 157-168.
After studying urban-rural migration in Japan over time, I realized that the mobilities of urbanites in the countryside and beyond are very dynamic. Over the years, I met people who moved to a rural town, stayed there for a few years and then moved to another rural area within Japan. There were also migrants who moved back to the city they came from, while others moved abroad. Still others have never confined themselves to one place of residence and lead a mobile life between two or more places. Even the Japanese government has recognized more mobile lifestyles and supports the promotion of kankei jinkō. The term has been awkwardly translated into English as “relationship population” and refers to a group of highly mobile people who regularly spend time in the countryside (Dilley et al. 2024).
In this article, I introduce Yuri, who first came to the countryside for a workation, returned several times and later moved to a rural town where she now lives part-time. I met Yuri in the fall of 2022 in a small town in Kyūshū where she currently rents a room in a sharehouse. She is a photographer and web designer in her early thirties who lived in Kansai and spent her second workation in Kyūshū when we first met. Workation combines the words “work” and “vacation” and means working remotely from a location of your choice rather than from home. When their work is done, workationers can explore their destination. In Japan, workation is closely linked to initiatives by local governments in rural Japan to attract people to visit, work and ideally settle in their communities (Matsushita 2022; Yoshida 2021). When the COVID-19 pandemic started, Yuri was able to work remotely and went on workations to different parts of Japan. In Okinawa, she met a girl who had been to Kyūshū and had helped to renovate a sharehouse. Yuri visited the sharehouse’s social media account and decided that she wanted to go there right away because the photos made her feel “at home” (atto hōmu na kanji). In 2022, she lived in the sharehouse, helped with renovations of another sharehouse and worked remotely. In January 2023, she relocated and moved into the sharehouse she had helped renovate, continued her remote work, and found work as a freelance photographer.
During our first meeting, we connected via social media. On social media, urban-rural migrants often use arrows between two place names to show where they have moved from and where to, but usually the arrow is pointing in only one direction. But some people like Yuri use arrows pointing in two directions to show that they are highly mobile individuals. In addition, many use the hashtag “nikyoten seikatsu” (living in two places). Yuri’s social media accounts document her travels all over Japan. She shows beautiful rural landscapes alternating with portraits of people and products. She describes her lifestyle as temporary migration (ichijiteki ijū) and enjoys her life between Kansai and Kyūshū as much as traveling within Japan for several months per year. The sharehouse itself is a place where people often only stay temporarily and Yuri enjoys meeting new people. In the spring of 2023, I lived with Yuri in the sharehouse and found her well-integrated into the community of urban-rural migrants, but she had also become friends with her elderly neighbors. Within the few weeks I spent with her, she had jobs in Kyūshū and went to Kyōto, Ōsaka and Okinawa. Although she rents a room in the sharehouse, the small town is more of a temporary base for her.
The reasons why people leave and move on are diverse, but for most of my research participants, the COVID-19 pandemic was a reason to choose a more mobile lifestyle. Yuri, for example, told me how free she felt when she was able to work remotely when the pandemic started in 2020 and her work style changed. Before the pandemic, she barely had time for anything other than her work because of the long commute. When she was able to work from home, she finally found the time to focus more on photography – a long-held wish. In addition, she was able to work all over Japan. Telecommuting offered the opportunity to work anywhere and made urban-rural migration and workation more attractive. Workation offered Yuri a new mobile lifestyle that would eventually lead her to move to Kyūshū. Generally speaking, remote work and workation increased the number of short-term visitors and kankei jinkō in the countryside (Dilley 2024; Matsushita 2022; Yoshida 2021), and some of these short-term visitors, like Yuri, decided to stay longer. Thus, changing work styles go hand in hand with mobilities and bring about change in rural Japan.
References:
Dilley, Luke, Menelaos Gkartzios, Shogo Kudo, Tokumi Odagiri (2024), “Hybridising counterurbanisation: Lessons from Japan’s kankeijinkō,” Habitat International 143, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.habitatint.2023.102967.
Matsushita, Keita (2022), “How the Japanese workcation embraces digital nomadic work style employees,” World Leisure Journal 65 (2): 218–235.
Yoshida, Tatsuya (2021), “How Has Workcation Evolved in Japan?” Annals of Business Administrative Science 20: 19–32.
Our team will take a break over the holidays. The blog will be back on January 10. Thank you for following our blog and for supporting our activities. Happy holidays and a happy new year!
This year, we have a special Christmas treat for you. Cornelia Reiher has edited a volume about processes of change in rural Japan during the COVID-19 pandemic. It contains a selection of posts from this blog and is available free of charge via the CrossAsia Open Access Repository: https://repository.crossasia.org/receive/crossasia_mods_00000588
Reiher, C. (Hg.), 2024. Lived experiences of crisis in rural Japan: An anthology on the transformation of communities and migration during the COVID-19 pandemic, Berlin: CrossAsia Open Access Repository, https://doi.org/10.48796/20241202-000
Surrounded by lush greenery, accompanied by the incessant chirping of cicadas in summer and a thick blanket of snow in winter, stands a farm house in Uwayu-mura (Tokamachi-shi) in Niigata Prefecture. The house is from the early Shōwa period with the words ‘Yume no ie’ above the entrance. However, the wood panelling and the impressive roof covering of the house give no clue as to what might be inside. Like many other formerly abandoned houses in the countryside, this akiya kominka was restored and converted into a venue for an art installation as part of the Echigo-Tsumari Art Triennial in 2000. ‘Yume no Ie’ or “Dream House” is the art project of artist Marina Abramovic, an interactive art experience where visitors can spend the night in a nightmare created by Abramovic (Ha 2023). In the colour-coded rooms, you can sleep in coffin-like beds while wearing similarly colour-coded sleepwear, eat a Western breakfast and, at the end, document dreams you might have while sleeping in the artwork.
When I looked at the art installation on the internet, I imagined a stay in this strange hotel as a visit to an almost unreal, distorted Japanese house. I noticed an obvious but surprising contrast between the exterior and interior of the kominka. However, I was even more surprised by some of the statements made by the artist Marina Abramovic about her own art installation. In one of her many statements about the Dream House, she said that she wanted this house to be part of the residents’ lives (Ha 2023). I wondered how this could work, as Eimi Tagore (2024) had highlighted the problem of the ‘theme park appeal’ of art installations in rural Japan, which attract crowds of tourists but ultimately cause more problems for local residents than they do positive change (Tagore 2024). Can an art installation really be valued as part of people’s lives in a rural area if, at first glance, the purpose of the installation is only to attract and harbour tourists? How successful is Abramovic’s art project in terms of facilitating the creation of community spaces that she promises?
To answer this question, I wanted to look at Abramovic’s project from multiple angles by consulting literature on art, abandoned houses, the difference between elite based, top-down art projects and a more hybrid case of top-down planned and bottom-up community engaged art projects (Platz 2024, Qu 2020). Statements about the sustainable impact of art work on local residents’ lives can also be found on the Echigo-Tsumari Art Trienniale’s (ETAT) official website.The organizers of ETAT list what revitalization through art projects in the region looks like. For one, it claims that the engagement between artist and local community is an essential part of the art festival and its installations, and it states that the local community becomes a source of collaborators for the artwork. Furthermore, it says that young people from metropolitan areas often volunteer locally, facilitating an intergenerational exchange that results in cooperation and appreciation between old and young (ETAT 2024). This effect of repurposing of vacant houses for art projects on community revitalization and integration is also found in the research of Anemone Platz, in which they show that the so called yosomono, or outsider, can “function as a bridge between the kominka and the residents, the art site, and the visiting audience” (Platz 2024). Through further research into Abramovic’s Dream House, I was able to find this connection between locals and artworks by outsiders. The residents of Uwayu and the managers of the Dream House, Emiko Takahashi, Sachiko Murayama and Masako Takasawa, emphasise that the Dream House has brought about a positive change for the town. They appreciate the reuse of kominka, even if they don’t fully understand the art itself, and say they are excited about the help of young volunteers from the big cities. One of the leaders, Emiko Takahashi, says: ‘When young people who were once volunteers come back with their own children, I feel like my daughter has come back with my grandchild’ (Uchida 2019).
ETAT also positions the art projects of its art festivals as unique hubs. They are not just meant to be disconnected works of art, but art installations that connect villages through modern engineering structures and create permanent places within works of art in rural communities (Qu 2020). I would be interested in how the local community is connected to breakfast at the Dream House, for example, as this could be another way of engaging locally. Ultimately, while there is reason to be critical of the content of art projects brought into a rural area from outside (Qu 2020), it is evident that Marina Abramovic’s Dream House integrates the community of Uwayu and exists not just as an artificially implanted artwork, but can be seen as a community-engaged art installation.
Platz, Anemone (2024), “From social issue to art site and beyond – reassessing rural akiya kominka,” Contemporary Japan 36, 1, pp. 41-56.
Qu, Meng (2020), “Teshima: From Island art to the art island: Art on/for a previously declining Japanese Inland Sea Island,” Shima – The International Journal of Research Into Island Cultures 14, 2, pp. 250-265.
Tagore, Eimi (2024), “Art festivals in Japan: Fueling revitalization, tourism, and self-censorship,” Contemporary Japan 36, 1, pp. 7-19.
