by Cecilia Luzi

One Sunday morning in mid-April, during my fieldwork in Hasami, I took my family to the “Takeo Ureshino Märchen Village” Amusement Park. It is an amusement park with a German name and Central European village atmosphere built in 1992. I had stumbled upon it on Google Maps and the bright pictures of a giant squirrel and a pink Ferris wheel had caught my attention. According to the website, the park has 1,000 free parking spaces and was designed for elementary school-aged children on a fairytale theme. It has a variety of attractions, including merry-go-rounds, an electric train, play areas with slides and swings, a large tent where kids could play with tricycles and bicycles and an area with small animals like squirrels, rabbits and two goats. We had a lot of fun running around the attractions, playing with a tricycle, taking the small train twice in a row, and feeding the rabbits with some lettuce. The sensory experience was also overwhelming. The constant jingles from the rides mixed with the joyful cries of children and the voices of parents, while the scent of animals seamlessly transitioned to that of fried food wafting from the various food stalls and the fast-food restaurant on the hill. Most of the visitors were young families with parents in their twenties and two or three kids. They were often accompanied by grandparents who patiently waited for their grandchildren to tire out while sitting under the shade of some large trees.

The giant squirrel at the entrance of the park.
Copyright © Cecilia Luzi 2023

Nevertheless, it was impossible for us to overlook the signs of decay: weathered characters and fading buildings, rusty attractions, a fenced-off swimming pool with greenish water overrun by weeds, abandoned buildings, and half-empty animal cages. When we arrived, we found a vast, deserted parking lot along the main road leading to the park entrance with faded white lines that once had marked parking spaces. The parking area near the main gate was half empty with cracked pavement, overgrown plants, and barely discernible ropes outlining parking spaces.

A view of the park’s rusty attractions and dirty roofs.
Copyright © Cecilia Luzi 2023

As I traveled back and forth by car between Hasami and Buzen, my two research field sites, I crossed northern Kyūshū from coast to coast. Along the way, I passed through numerous towns and villages nestled among mountains, far away from major cities, highways, and railways. My eyes had grown accustomed to the persistent signs of decay that is now a familiar sight in rural Japan. Many of the buildings that were once schools, factories, warehouses, pachinko slots, restaurants, and tourist destinations now lay empty or in a state of disrepair. Akiya are not the only markers of depopulation in rural Japan. Today, abandoned infrastructures, entertainment venues, and public spaces also serve as a monumental reminder of a once-thriving and prosperous past. In those days, even the most remote areas were bustling with construction projects aimed at meeting the needs of a rural population that was still vibrant.

A renovated old post office next to an abandoned building in Nakatsu, Oita prefecture.
Copyright © Cecilia Luzi 2023

In my travels through rural areas in various parts of Japan, I have witnessed this scenario of decay throughout the country. It’s hard not to feel a sense of nostalgia and melancholy when confronted with abandoned rice paddies, fallow fields, deserted villages, and the slow decay of once magnificent wooden houses. I often wonder how hard it must be for those who call these places home to watch their hometowns slowly disappear. But I found the most serene perspective among the older residents who had spent their entire lives in these villages. They have witnessed significant changes throughout their lives and seem to view the current decline as if it were just another natural event accompanying them. An 80-year-old man in Buzen told me, “Life here is hard. There are no services, and the nearest supermarket is 25 minutes away by car. Why would a young person who has a life in the city want to live here? In ten years, this village will disappear, there’s nothing we can do about it, and that’s fine.” In the eyes of some residents, the depopulation we are seeing today is just another development of rural Japan. It is not necessarily something they can or want to reverse. Their view goes beyond resignation; they accept how things are evolving and acknowledge the flow of life in these remote areas.