by Signy Goto-Spletzer

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.

References:

Agency for Cultural Affairs (n.d.), Nihon no zantei ichiranhyō kisai isan, https://www.bunka.go.jp/seisaku/bunkazai/shokai/sekai_isan/zantei.html (accessed January 28, 2025).

Hall, Laura (2024), “The summer that tourism fell apart,” BBC, 26 September 2024, https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20240925-the-summer-that-tourism-fell-apart (accessed January 28, 2025).

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.

Kumamoto Prefecture (2020), ‘Aso’ no seikai bunkaisan tōroku ni muketa torikumi nitsuite, https://www.pref.kumamoto.jp/soshiki/22/367.html (accessed January 28, 2025).

MICHINOEKI ASO (2021), “Shuku! Okinawa・Amami ‘sekai shizenisan’ tōroku: Aso mo ‘sekai bunkaisan’ tōroku ni muke ganbatteimasu!!“ Michinoeki Aso Blog, 27 July 2021, https://www.aso-denku.jp/recommend/2021/07/asoeffortforworldheritage/ (accessed January 28, 2025).

MOFA (2024), Cooperation with International Organizations (UNESCO,UNU): World Heritage, 25 November 2024, https://www.mofa.go.jp/policy/culture/coop/unesco/c_heritage/w_heritage/index.html (accessed January 28, 2025).

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.

by Julia Olsson

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.