by Lynn Ng

I have been skeptical of Japan’s education system for years after I taught at a rural high school for three years and saw the rigid barriers to holistic learning. When I saw the multi-million dollar construction project of Yume no Mori, a new public school for children aged 0 to 15 in the town of Okuma, hidden in the former Fukushima nuclear exclusion zone, in January 2023, I was skeptical. After all, what good is an expensive campus project if the education system is no different to that of other schools?

Yet, one year later, I stand deeply corrected. In 2024, I sat in on a class where two students were practicing English with their two teachers in a bright open classroom in Yume no Mori. “We want to extend, this is a rare chance to speak more English,” a student confidently tells the teacher at the end of the first session. Despite their looming high school entrance examinations, to which the second-half of the class was initially dedicated, these two students held no hesitation in expressing what they wanted for their education, which was to practice non-textbook, non-examination English. In fact, at Yume no Mori, there are no “teachers,” only “designers” that help students design the education that best suits their needs. The students thus become highly engaged in classes, for each activity is catered to their interests and abilities. The students are not bound to grade-levels or classrooms, but rather have open spaces all around the campus – including multiple nooks at the library and outdoor playgrounds – where they can decide to have their classes take place. Students wear no standardized attire, and neither do the “designers.”

Furthermore, the manager’s (Vice-Principal) passion and enthusiasm for this school and its students is clearly palpable. Dressed in a casual, smart jacket and T-shirt, he led us through the huge grounds with a large, open central library and several oddly shaped classrooms on two levels, while talking to each student as if they were his own children. He knows each student’s personality intimately, telling us stories of kids who used to skip school and now want to come to school every day, and he is proud of the students’ individual academic achievements.

By the end of the visit, I had come to the realization that the Yume no Mori model only works in a rural environment. A rural privilege, so to speak. In Japan’s rural environment, Yume no Mori offers its students not only plenty of space for leisure activities, but also for quiet corners for reading and studying or for a short nap. Students can easily share the same room in this large building without disturbing each other while studying. The low student-teacher ratio (29 students and 17 teachers) ensures that each student’s educational needs are optimally met and that students can build their academic and social confidence with their “learning designers.”

As I walked through the hallways of Yume no Mori that day, watching the children meaningfully engage in their learning environment and interact with their peers and designers, I felt an epiphany – the brief and intense understanding of that “hope” and future that my research participants often speak of. In Yume no Mori, I can so easily see in these children’s future potential: people who have mastered their art and are confidently putting their ideas out into the world. As I signed off the visitor list, I felt a deep stab of envy and sadness. I didn’t want to leave. A planned one-hour visit had turned into four, and yet I wanted to stay longer in the calming space of Yume no Mori. I can see the potential of Yume no Mori to encourage young people and attract young families to the region, thus repopulating the town. But more than that, I am rooting for the school, its leaders and designers and the next generation of talent that will emerge from this place.

by Satoru Yamamoto

The expansion of telework during the COVID-19 pandemic has provided an unexpected opportunity to advance migration from big cities to rural areas and to counteract the aging and shrinking populations in Japan’s countryside. The primary barrier to urban-rural migration is the lack of jobs in rural areas. Therefore, migration through telework or “telework migration” has been promoted as one of the national policies since the early 2000s. However, telework was limited before COVID-19, and the policy did not have a marked effect. Telework migration to rural areas only began to emerge in the early fall of 2020, and it was mainly people from Tokyo who relocated to the countryside. On the other hand, non-telework migration, which requires securing a job in a new location, had already been on the rise after the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011. Currently, with the addition of telework migration, urban-rural migration has developed into a kind of boom. According to the Furusato Kaiki Shien Center [1], the number of consultation cases for migration in 2023 was approximately 59,300, a record high [2]. However, the main feature of urban-rural migration after COVID-19, apart from the increase in the number of migrants, is a qualitative change.

During COVID-19, I interviewed 16 migrants in Yamaguchi Prefecture. As a result, I could observe the differences in the motivations between non-telework migrants and telework migrants. First, I present three samples of non-telework migrants from Tokyo. A farmer in his thirties said: “I had a strong desire to escape somewhere completely different from where I had lived before and cut off my life to restart from scratch.” A museum concierge in her twenties told me: “I couldn’t see myself in this fast-paced life in Tokyo anymore. So I came here because I had a job I wanted to do.” And finally, a ceramic artist in his 50s stated: “I was not comfortable with a life that only took place in my imagination. I had a desire to live in reality, to experience life, and so I started training in pottery here.” These quotes show that non-telework migrants desire to reset their lives and achieve self-realization through work. This motivates their relocation. This is a trend that has started before the COVID-19 pandemic and continues.

Secondly, I present three samples of telework migrants whom I asked about their motivation to move to Yamaguchi Prefecture. They did not mention a desire or a resolution to reset their lives. A marketer in his twenties told me: “My work is no different from what I was doing in Tokyo. Therefore, my income hasn’t decreased. However, since moving here, my cost of living has decreased by 20%.” Another reason for the relocation of telework migrants is their family situation. An IT-engineer in his forties said: “My main reason is childcare. There are much better facilities in Tokyo than in Yamaguchi, but I’m sure, for children, the relaxed environment here is better.” And a consultant in his forties explained that he prefers a mobile lifestyle: “I don’t believe it is necessary to be rooted in a particular region. For me, it’s easier to feel like I’m living temporarily, like a long-term workcation.” Telework migrants migrate to rural areas where the cost of living is lower and keep their higher income from their jobs in the big city. It is a simple change of residence (hikkoshi) in search of a comfortable living environment and an ideal lifestyle. And some migrants have a more mobile sense of place than others.

While non-teleworking migrants tend to view migration as a particular life choice based on the decision to change their lifestyle and their job, teleworking migrants tend to view it as a familiar and rational life choice without a decision to radically change their lives. The main reason for this is that their place of work is not directly linked to the place of residence. One migration consultant described this qualitative change as “a situation in which the word ‘migration’ (ijū) no longer seems appropriate.” [3] Furthermore, one researcher pointed out that many traditional migration policies implemented by local governments no longer work [4]. Certainly, it is not easy for local governments to manage two types of migration with different motivations and forms of mobility in parallel. However, I am convinced that telework migration is essential for the preservation and revitalization of rural areas where attractive high-income jobs are scarce. Therefore, local governments must adapt to the qualitative change caused by the Covid-19 pandemic.

References:

[1] Furusato Kaiki Shien Center is an NPO that works with local governments to provide consultation and support for urban-rural migration: https://www.furusatokaiki.net/

[2] The Furusatokaiki Shien Center, News-Release, 27/02/2024,

https://www.furusatokaiki.net/wp/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/webnews_furusatokaiki_ranking_2023.pdf

[3] Based on an interview by the author, 08/07/2022.

[4] Kazuo, KASAMI. (2021): Urban-rural migration during COVID-19, Cabinet Office, 3^rd Roundtable Meeting of Experts on Urban Regeneration,

https://www.chisou.go.jp/tiiki/toshisaisei/yuushikisyakondankai/20210224/index.html

Satoru Yamamoto is researching urban-rural migration in Japan at the Graduate School of Economics at Yamaguchi University. After working in real estate development for approximately 30 years in big cities, he returned to his hometown, Yamaguchi City to join the Graduate School.

by Cornelia Reiher

Two of our field sites are known for porcelain. The porcelain industry in Arita has experienced a steady downward trend since the 1990s. Not only turnover, but also the number of workshops, retail stores and employees has fallen sharply (Arita-cho 2023: 9; Reiher 2010, 2014). Some kilns have closed and are empty or have been demolished. What remains are empty properties and lots of porcelain shards that can be found all over the city: in rivers, next to abandoned ascending kilns (noborigama) or where porcelain factories used to be. But it’s not just shards that are left over; large quantities of unsold products with flaws are also kept in warehouses, which are often on the verge of collapse themselves.

Recently, both locals and newcomers have started to reuse and upcycle porcelain shards and discarded porcelain. For example, a migrant potter who works in a kiln in Arita makes new products from older B-ware that have been stored in the forest for many years and are now cracked. The potter, who is very interested in sustainability, has tracked down these pieces and painted over the cracks with golden lines, in the style of kintsugi. She told me how shocked she was when she found out about the huge amounts of B-ware in the forests, and that she wondered why the kiln she works for was not doing anything with it. She thought it would be better to rediscover what was already there rather than keep making new things, and applied for funding to test and excavate the pieces to see if they were broken. After cleaning and firing 500 pieces, they are now sold as small flower vases. By upcycling porcelain, the potter created a popular new product that is also sold via the furusato nōzei system. This home-town tax payment is a system that allows people to transfer a portion of their residence tax from the municipality where they reside to one or more other municipalities in exchange for gifts like the upcycled flower vase.

But not all the porcelain products stored in Arita’s kilns are cracked or broken. Some kilns have gone bankrupt and unsold porcelain is taking up space. Others want to get rid of the old porcelain in order to reuse their storage space. With so much porcelain sitting around in many kilns, one company came up with the idea of selling old porcelain in a tsume hōdai style. The porcelain is lined up in boxes in an unused part of the kiln and customers fill baskets for 5,000 yen or 10,000 JPY. They can take as much porcelain as they can find and fit into the basket within an hour. This idea became a huge success, bringing a lot of money and attention to the kiln.

This so-called treasure hunt is even listed as a tourist attraction in the Lonely Planet travel guide and attracts Japanese and foreign tourists to the kiln. The kiln now also receives porcelain for the treasure hunt from other kilns that have been closed. When I visited the kiln after the travel ban to Japan was lifted, the place was busy with tourists from China and India. The person in charge also told me that people come very early to make sure there is still good porcelain available. Rummaging through the dusty boxes of porcelain was indeed a lot of fun. But beyond that, it is also a great opportunity to reuse old porcelain that can no longer be sold.

Initiatives such as the two described above are still rare and will not solve all the problems caused by the decline of the ceramics industry in Arita. There are still many unused kilns and unsold porcelain in the city. However, they are the first steps in rethinking the future of a traditional industry from a sustainability perspective, both in terms of environmental issues and the preservation of Arita’s cultural heritage. And they can be an inspiration for further projects, as new ideas are also emerging elsewhere in Arita. Recently, for example, jewelry made from porcelain shards has become very popular and is sold in a store in Arita, at the annual ceramics fair and online. It seems that the kilns in Arita are ready to incorporate sustainability, reuse and upcycling more into their future business strategies.

References:

Arita-chō (2023), Statistical Yearbook 2022, https://www.town.arita.lg.jp/site_files/file/2023/202306//6486cd3bc6adfLD3AXP72.pdf

Reiher, Cornelia (2014), Lokale Identität und ländliche Revitalisierung. Die japanische Keramikstadt Arita und die Grenzen der Globalisierung, Bielefeld: transcript.

Reiher, Cornelia (2010) „Selling tradition in Japanese rural tourism“, Orientwissenschaftliche Hefte 28, pp. 121–151.