Part 2: (Im)Mobilities and economic risks

by Johannes Wilhelm

In rural Aso, the pandemic was initially perceived as a problem of urban areas, but the then unknown disease frightened many. The initial impact in Kumamoto was most noticeable in schools, where graduation ceremonies and new enrollments for the new school year around March/April 2020 were cancelled. Events around the cherry blossom season – such as the beautiful village festival in the 9th district of Kugino – did not take place in most cases. One exception was the hifuri no shinji at Aso Shrine on March 18, 2020, a festival in which hay bundles are tied to a rope and twirled around the shrine’s entrance area. In a sense, the festival marks the beginning of the agricultural year, which is symbolized by a cultic marriage of two deities. Interestingly, the festival almost always coincides with the beginning of the cherry blossom season, an old woman told me. The sandō path to the shrine was lined with numerous people following the festival after dusk, since it is one of the most important holiday ceremonies at the sacred site.

The steadily growing number of so-called inbound tourists from abroad until the turn of the year 2019/2020 – in Kyūshū’s case mainly from China and Korea due to the relatively short distance –came to an abrupt stop with the country’s closure to foreigners. Japan’s entry restrictions had a huge impact on the tourism sector. Aso was no exception. As a resident, this had some advantages such as fewer cars, for example. Before the pandemic, tourists suddenly stopped and parked their car somewhere along a serpentine and even wandered around at times to take photos with their cell phones for social media. One day in May 2020, I had an interesting encounter in Uchinomaki. I was invited by a local group as a guest to stay overnight at the beautiful Sozankyō guesthouse. Throughout its history, the old guesthouse has accommodated famous people like the well-known poets Yosano Tekkan and Akiko. On the way back from breakfast, I unexpectedly met a middle-aged German who had made his way to Japan after an odyssey from Polynesia, where he wanted to wander around as a tourist for as long as possible. Well, each to his own, I thought .

Less tourism also has its advantages, but for those in Aso whose jobs depend on tourism, the pandemic has been a disaster with an unclear end. Y., an employee at the so-called Shokuan (Shokugyō antei-sho, commonly known as “Hellowork”) told us that the number of job seekers was skyrocketing. Since she was also responsible for non-Japanese clients at the “employment office,” she was also able to tell me more about the many foreign helpers, especially in the agricultural sector (Nōgyō jisshūsei, i.e. officially “agricultural interns”). Many among the latter found themselves in an absurd situation, a pandemic limbo, because on the one hand it was not possible for them to leave Japan or enter their home countries. Meanwhile, they ran the risk of overstaying their residence permits and thus slipping into visa crime. By the time the relevant authorities were able to offer a solution to this very problem, the immigration authorities were completely overrun. I experienced this firsthand, when I had to extend my visa in March 2020.

The case of four siblings from the Philippines shows how migrants were affected by this situation. They originally came to Japan as interns and were later hired as helpers by the landlord of my regular pub, where small jazz sessions were held. But the pub had to be constantly closed for a certain period of time and the landlord finally had to file for bankruptcy in April 2021, leaving the siblings more or less out in the cold. The employment office worker told me about nursing schools that were suddenly overrun with women from the Philippines seeking to retrain in nursing despite their lack of Japanese language skills. These schools, in turn, urgently needed support staff and funding to teach basic language skills in the nursing sector.

In contrast to urban areas, the risks of infection in rural Aso were initially manageable. As a result, young urban families and freelancers (e.g., in the digital sector with no local ties) began to move to the countryside. This was actually quite similar to what had happened after the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The new concept of working holiday was gratefully received and also propagated by numerous media-savvy academics and government agencies (abbreviated as wā-hori it should not be confused with the same abbreviation for workaholic), which in turn led to subsidy programs for office conversions for numerous hostels. Let’s see how long this trend lasts, I thought. At the same time, these new migrants seemed somewhat selfish to me, especially since – in most cases – they ignored the local residents and local conditions to some degree. They did not want to give up their urban lifestyles and do ‘their thing’. Such an attitude, together with a lack of integration efforts by the local authorities tied to Corona measures, was doomed to fail. That locals were hardly willing to make their partly empty properties available was may be a sign of resistance. In the spring of 2020, the waiting list counted more than 200 households who wanted to move in from urban areas to Minamiaso-mura.

Soon, however, the pandemic will also reach rural areas as we have learned from the so-called ‘Spanish flu’. More on this in the following parts of the report.

[… to be continued …]

Johannes Wilhelm is an independent researcher and is affiliated with Vienna University. His main studies focus on the relationship between nature and society. His interests include fisheries, pastures in mountainous regions, and rural areas as much as general phenomena in society such as radicalism, migration and social vulnerability.

by Ngo Tu Thanh (Frank Tu)

In July 2022, I finally made it to Fukuoka after 9 years! This is my first visit to Kyūshū since my time as a high school senior in Yame-shi – a small rural city in Fukuoka Prefecture. Needless to say, I was overjoyed to be back or as they say in Japanese: “dokidoki-kan, wakuwaku-kan hanpanai”. The excitement does not only come from the fact that I can reunite with my host family, high school friends and teachers after such a long time. But it also stems from the main reason why I am here: to research Fukuoka’s regional revitalization policies. During my two-month stay here, I will be mainly based in Fukuoka City to interview officials at the Fukuoka prefectural government, as well as in Buzen City to meet municipal officials. 

“Humidity”, “beachy”, “hospitality”, “energy”, “positivity”, “touristy”, and “gastronomy” are the words I would use to describe my stay in Fukuoka so far. Facing the sea on three sides, Fukuoka Prefecture is home to many beautiful beaches, many of which are accessible by public transport. In the summer, Fukuoka is humid and hot, similar to most other parts of Japan. However, the salty sea breezes here gives a very different feeling from other cities such as Tokyo. Fukuoka’s beaches are also hotspots for small businesses such as bars, restaurants, diving, surfing and swimming courses. Personally, I often went swimming in Momochi beach (Fukuoka City) after work and “contributed to Fukuoka’s economy” by getting a fresh cocktail. Yet, I kept wondering why the beach never gets overly crowded. In response to this question, the owner of the flat I am currently staying at told me that Fukuoka’s beaches used to attract many tourists from Korea, Taiwan and some Southeast Asian countries. However, Covid-19 has put a stop to tourism from outside of Japan and hence the number of visitors declined. But right now, thanks to the summer vacation period and the Obon festival (July – August), domestic travelers can still be seen everywhere. 

In addition to beaches, Fukuoka Prefecture also offers a wide range of tourist attractions. For instance, Dazaifu Tenmangu (Dazaifu City) is a well-known shrine dedicated to the God of Education. Japanese students usually visit the shrine before exams for good fortune. Personally, I also went to Dazaifu Tenmangu in 2013 before my university entrance exam, and visited it again this time around in hope of a successful PhD graduation.

Another example is the Hakata Gion Yamakasa Festival (Fukuoka City), which is held every year during the first half of July. This festival returned for the first time since the outbreak of COVID-19 in 2020. The festival was a multi-day race between groups of men who had to run a five-kilometer course while carrying a one-ton festival float (kakiyama). Despite the extreme heat and humidity in July, visitors to the festival could feel the energy and vitality emanating from the participants. The festival did really revitalize the city!

Furthermore, Fukuoka is highly famous within Japan for its various delicacies, such as Hakata ramen, chanpon, and especially seafood. Also, visiting a street food stall (yatai) is often introduced as one of Fukuoka’s must-do activities, even by locals. Gastronomy is one of the main attractions for many tourists in Fukuoka.

As described so far, Fukuoka Prefecture seems to have a lot of potential for tourism, and that is exactly what many of its municipalities are striving for. During my stay here, I had the opportunity to speak with a former Cabinet Office official who now works at Fukuoka City Hall. The official informed me that many places in Fukuoka Prefecture do not have large rivers necessary for factories, and therefore many communities call themselves “service towns” and focus on tourism. However, the Covid-19 pandemic has made the strategy of focusing on the service sector very risky. Therefore, it is important for municipalities in Fukuoka to diversify their strategies for regional development.

New rural lifestyles in Japan (part 2)

by Cecilia Luzi

I am about to leave for fieldwork in Japan and I am looking forward to visiting my two field sites, Hasami-chō in Nagasaki-ken and Buzen-shi in Fukuoka-ken. Today I will introduce images and online representations of Hasami. I have never been to Hasami. I never visited the ceramic park nor did I enjoy a freshly brewed ice-coffee in one of the cafés in town. My image of Hasami however is that of a trendy village and it is based on hours spent following Instagram accounts, watching YouTube travel videos in my office in Berlin and a few online interviews with locals. Hasami-chō is a small village of around 15.000 inhabitants surrounded by mountains. Along with many pottery studios and workshops selling handmade porcelain to suit every pocket, Hasami is full of small, cozy cafés with delicious handmade food and welcoming owners. Hasami is the only municipality in Nagasaki prefecture with no direct access to the sea. There is no train station either, but Hasami is only a two-hour drive away from Fukuoka, so tourists visit its historical kilns and the ceramic park often by car. Usually, visitors come for a one-day trip, though a few stay overnight.

 According to the online videos, after a quick stop at the first ramen-shop on the road many visit  Hiroppa a famous ceramic themed park designed by a Tōkyō-based architecture studio. Hiroppa holds a shop selling ceramics from different kilns, other small boutiques, cafés and a wide garden. It perfectly fits the contemporary aesthetic standards of the most stylish and “Instagrammable” places in Tōkyō: a mix of industrial design, minimalist decor and photograph-worthy details. The tour of Hasami then continues with a visit to old porcelain manufactures and more recent workshops, where traditional styles and techniques of local potters stand next to the original works of younger craftsmen and craftswomen.

In Hasami, small cafés have spread over the past decade, and visitors can take a rest to sip fresh brewed coffee and taste eye-catching dishes while enjoying the atmosphere of an old Japanese house or renovated ceramic workshop. They can choose to have customized crêpes (Morinaga special crepe), artisanal ice creams (Kometama) or French-style cuisine (Yōshokuya Forest). Some of these places are affiliated with a porcelain studio (as at Zoe l’Atelier de poterie), while others are located in what was once an old ceramic manufacturing complex (e.g. Nishinohara, where migrants who arrived around 15 years ago also built an indoor climbing wall!). Each of these businesses is unique and they all share a cosmopolitan and sophisticated atmosphere.

A couple of my research participants explained to me how Hasami’s townscape has changed in only one decade. When some of the migrants I interviewed arrived between 2007 and 2010, the town was not particularly attractive for young urbanites. However, favorable economic conditions and political choices for rural repopulation created the right mix of incentives for many new small personal businesses including cafés and crafts shops. Young artists and ceramic artisans also started to settle down. As a result, tourists and one-day visitors increased. This Hasami-būmu, as one of my informants called it, has been transforming the town from a place where “nothing was there” (nanimo nakatta) to a cool, stylish and trendy location (osharena tokoro). Yet, the case of Hasami is not unique but rather reflects what happens in many small municipalities in rural Japan that are undergoing some degree of transformation under the influence of urban-rural migration and domestic tourism.

The online images of Hasami I have introduced above, show that the digital transformation of daily life is impacting the way rural Japan is experienced by residents and perceived by outsiders. In this context, online space plays an important role as a platform for both the production and consumption of a new image of rural Japan. Understanding the importance of the online dimension for the dissemination of these representations is essential, especially since a large proportion of them are created by urban-rural migrants who target other urbanites. To attract this specific type of audience, rural Japan is portrayed as stylish, traditional and innovative and as a vibrant place with interesting activities and people living close to nature. Rural areas are depicted as beautiful landscapes with terraced rice paddies, small villages and lush mountains.

The changes of images and perceptions of rural areas taking place in the digital space are visible through social media like Instagram, Tiktok and Facebook. But this transformation in the production and consumption of rural Japan impacts the physical space and daily lives of rural dwellers as well. Not only does the landscape change, but businesses and new activities also open up new opportunities for long-term residents. One of my research participants, who runs a café that was among the first businesses that kicked off Hasami’s transformation, told me that after an initial period of skepticism, Hasami’s elderly residents slowly began to frequent her establishment and eventually became regular customers. They now sit in the café alongside travel bloggers from Fukuoka and recent immigrants from Tōkyō, providing the place with the touch of authenticity many (former) urbanites are looking for.

Yet from my desk in Berlin many questions remain. These include for example: How are things really changing? How is the digital representation of rural Japan mirroring real life experiences of both locals, newcomers and settled migrants?  I plan to leave for fieldwork by mid-October. I’m looking forward to being in Hasami and to meeting and talking to its residents about all these transformations in person.

by Josko Kozic

Hello to all from the hot and humid Yabu Valley, located in Hyogo Prefecture. Almost a year has passed since my last post in this beautiful blog, and this time I am happy to share with you my latest report of an outreach in the field.

As a doctoral student in religious studies, I am researching contemporary mountain worship and ascetic training (called shugendō) with a focus on rural areas off the beaten path. This time I would like to introduce you to a very unusual priest I met while visiting Hyogo Prefecture, a priest who lives and serves for both spiritual concerns and everyday life.

I don’t usually discuss or even mention the pandemic in my research, as my topic is different, but more and more I realized how much of an impact this topic had on both my research conditions and the content itself. Unfortunately, as the number of infections in Japan continues to rise, many important events and gatherings at temples and sacred sites are being cancelled one after another. So being in Japan does not necessarily mean automatically being “on the ground” and able to conduct participant observations, as one might think. 

In these hesitant times, however, I came across a beautiful Buddhist temple on the sacred Mt. Myōken in the small, lush green town of Yabu. After enjoying the quiet and solemn atmosphere of the place, a relatively young priest came by to greet me warmly and show me the temple’s main shrines, including rare Buddhist statues. It was Dr. Morita Ryushin[1], who serves both as the temple’s head priest and as the director of the local Nikko clinic in the town of Yabu, from where he provides community-level medical care. After I introduced myself to Dr. (or priest) Morita and had a good conversation for the first time, we knew we wanted to meet again. However, it took another year before we finally met again during the current season of O-bon, the prayerful and devotional festival of the dead. During this time, many people return to their (often rural) hometowns to spend time with their families.

Dr. Morita cares daily for patients struggling with corona infections and other illnesses, and says that even during the O-bon festival, he is now unable to receive his community members and even his own family. His gentle way of caring for his hometown and its residents, both as a doctor and as a Buddhist priest, makes him special to me in many ways. That’s why I appreciate his kind invitation from the day before even more. During our conversation, he also told me how much the succession of a Buddhist temple is declining in the countryside, and that temples in his childhood were usually seen as the center of a local community.

The study of Japanese religions can be so diverse, both in terms of topics and approaches. Many international scholars have recently been conducting research on current and important topics such as the looting of ancient Buddhist statues in rural temples and the handling (or recycling) of valuable shrines in rural temples. The importance and diversity of religious institutions, actors, and activities as vehicles of local community can be explored from many different angles, making it a fascinating research topic.

Josko Kozic (MA) moved to Japan five years ago after graduating in Japanese & Southeast Asian Studies at Goethe University in his hometown Frankfurt. He currently resides in Yokohama while working on his PhD thesis about contemporary Shugendo (a Japanese religious tradition). He is affiliated with the faculty of Religious studies at Heidelberg University.

[1]
There is a short documentary in Japanese, introducing Dr. Morita: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lODJjgajRU

by Maritchu Durand

When the summer heat strikes the concrete of the city, we all look for a way to cool off, physically and mentally. Unlike Lynn, who’s strategy to find some freshness is to picture snowy landscapes, I tend to look for a cool and shady spot in the park or near a lake, with a good book to help me through the heat waves. This time, I took on a Japanese book that had been lying in my bookshelf for some time now: Kamusari Nānā Nichijō by Miura Shion [1].

Yūki is a young man from Tokyo who just graduated high school. Having no plans whatsoever of going to college or looking for a fulltime job after school, he gets forced by his mother and teacher to join a government program training young Japanese in the lumber industry. He is transferred to the village of Kamusari in the mountainous countryside, where he will spend a year as an intern for the lumber industry. After a day long journey on local trains, he arrives at a place with no phone reception that is full of insects and locals with a thick accent. After getting basic training, he is sent to the historical center of Kamusari at the foot of the mountains, where he will work for Seiichi-san, the village head who owns most of the woodland in the area.

Throughout the book, I followed Yūki’s journey learning all about the art and tradition of the lumber industry. He is accompanied by his friendly team members: the boasting, loud and impulsive Yoki, a young man with bleached hair living with his wife and grandmother with whom Yūki moves in; the serious and calm team leader Seiichi-san; and the two other members with thick Kamusari dialects Iwao-san and Saburo-san. The word ‘nā nā’ being the most prominent expression of the local dialect, of which Yūki will learn the different meanings throughout his stay. For example, why it might describe a slow and peaceful way of living, it can also mean ‘this is really serious’.

Kamusari Nānā Nichijō is not only about the hard work of Japanese lumberjacks in the cool shadows of the high rising suki over the mountain peaks. It is also a journey alongside a young man who learns about rejection, ostracization and finally acceptance by the locals, about traditions, peculiar festivals and beliefs, about life in a small, close and rather remote community.

While the novel does not make a pass on the unavoidable love story and the exaggerated rough representation of the rural community, the portrayal of the omnipresent nature that almost becomes a character in itself, the likeable characters and the persevering Yūki made me want to be part of this community although it is threatened by the problems we all know: outmigration, an aging population and a low birthrate.

At first, this very romanticized and caricatural portrayal of rural Japan first made me think: yet another representation of furusato. But reading on, I got attached to the characters and caught myself daydreaming about climbing on the high trees and looking over the morning mists of the mountains of Kamusari. I realized how powerful a novel can be and how much potential it carries. No wonder this book was turned into a movie[1] two years later. Although the plot has been slightly modified, the message remains the same: it is a strong promotion of life in the countryside and gives a positive image of a rural community in Japan. For Yūki who was lost in the big city without strong connections or attachments, finding a home and a family in rural Japan made him grow and find some sense in his life, entering adulthood.

I will avoid spoilers and will not say if Yūki will decide to stay or not after one year in Kamusari. On a last note, however, when reading the credits at the end of the movie, I was surprised to see that special thanks were addressed to the MAFF, the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture. Beyond concrete political measures and schemes to promote urban-rural migration, I can understand why this type of media is considered by the ministry as a great addition to its efforts to attract young people to rural Japan.

References

[1]
Miura, Shion (2012): Kamusari Nānā Nichijō [the ‘nana’ daily life in Kamusari], Tokuma Shoten.

[2]
Yaguchi, Shinobu (director) (2014): Wood Job! [Film], Japan: Toho.

The summer term ends in Berlin and we will go on a vacation. We will be back with more posts about rural Japan on August 19. Have a great summer!

by Johannes Wilhelm

It is the end of February 2020. From my wooden house at the southern foot of the inner volcanic cone of the huge caldera of Aso (Kumamoto Prefecture), I am heading for Tokyo, where I will give a lecture on the “Cowboys of Aso”. Before departure, I check the latest mails. The organizer mails that in view of the beginning pandemic and in agreement with the Japanese authorities all events at the institute have to be cancelled at short notice. Well! I stoically took note of the decision, but on the plane the sense of my outward and return flight seemed quite absurd. After a few days, I was back at the volcano, while at the first shopping in the only supermarket of Minamiaso, surprisingly, neither official trash bags, nor toilet paper was to be found: everything bought empty. I asked my relatives and friends in Tokyo and elsewhere if this was also the case there, but they were all surprised, because everything was still available. The following week, however, some of them came forward and told me that a run on toilet paper had now also begun in the other major cities of Japan. Then – about two weeks after Aso – I read in the foreign media that, in addition to toilet paper, noodles were also becoming scarce. At that time I remembered the lyrics of a song by the German band Tocotronic about the new strangeness, which opened up to me like the discovery of a new semiotic continent … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZweXZqoV7nc&ab_channel=OMhA

Minamiaso thus became a trendsetter in terms of social phenomena in the pandemic, at least as far as toilet paper was concerned. And the trash bag shortage soon died down, too. Later, other oddities in the countryside came to light, such as alcohol dealers who out of the blue marketed their whiskey or shochū as disinfectants, or some greenies trying to sell overpriced masks of dubious origin at moon prices, but I want to focus on other things in this text.

Many people with an affinity for Japan are probably aware that the Aso region is one of the main tourist attractions on Kyūshū Island. It occupies a correspondingly prominent role in local economic life, although in my opinion the main pillars of the economy are the welfare sector (keyword: aging) in addition to agricultural production. An important fact is that the working life of many people in Aso consists of several parts. For example, many rely on their land holdings to pursue a primary activity such as cattle raising or rice cultivation, while also pursuing a few side jobs, such as cleaning public baths in the evenings or producing handicrafts such as embroidery, woodwork or pottery offered at michi no eki or other outlets. Full-time jobs are only those in the administration of the city hall or government offices and schools as well as full-time positions in production facilities in the industry. The structure of the tourism sector is similarly diverse. The domestic tourists, but mainly those visiting from abroad, usually only see the hotels, restaurants or inns, i.e. the superficial manifestations of the industry with their many employees, but behind them there is a whole range of sub-enterprises, such as dry cleaners for bed linen.

Just a couple of weeks before the so-called “Golden Week”, it was decided that all public baths and the onsen thermal baths, which are extremely popular among tourists, would be closed for an indefinite period. Lodgings and restaurants were also ordered by local authorities to take a rest period. When I went to the nearest dry cleaning business in May to prepare my winter clothes for proper storage over the humid summer, I was told that from now on the business would only run on Saturdays every fortnight and only a quarter of the staff – mainly full-time employees – would still be present, as there was no demand in the light of the closed lodges. 

… to be continued …

Johannes Wilhelm is an independent researcher and is affiliated with Vienna University. His main studies focus on the relationship between nature and society. His interests include fisheries, pastures in mountainous regions, and rural areas as much as general phenomena in society such as radicalism, migration and social vulnerability.

by Lynn Ng

As a child, whenever I complained about Singapore’s horrible heat and humidity, my parents would show me pictures of snowscapes. “Mind over matter,” they always said. I never believed in the “science” behind my parents’ actions, because those pictures only ever made me feel envious of people who do not live in the tropics and never any cooler than before. Yet, this week as I sweat through yet another T-shirt in Berlin, I decided to look up the photographs of my time in snowy Hokkaido for comfort in this hot time. Along with this decision came a strong nostalgia for this region I once called home.

In 2015, I transplanted myself from tropical sunny Singapore to a rural town that buries itself in over 200cm of snow every winter. I enjoyed the snow – the softness and refreshing cold that comes with it. But more than snow, I relished the quiet rurality. Rural Japan, and especially rural Hokkaido, is beautiful. Like most urbanites in rural Japan, I arrived with rose-tinted glasses. Everything in the countryside was wonderful – the untouched nature, the friendly people, the countless cheap hotsprings… the list goes on.

Over the years, I would notice how tinted these glasses were for rural Hokkaido is of course not without its problems. There were moments when I wanted to catch a movie in the theaters only to realize the nearest showing was in a city two hours away. The train there would arrive at either 8 a.m. or 4 p.m., or would be cancelled in case of snow. Such trivialities aside, I saw also the underutilized theme parks and landmarks built with private funds during the bubble or supported by government funds for rural revitalization. Many local residents complained to me that these projects were a waste of money since no one goes there, and yet these parks were some of my favorite places to visit for the additional quietness.

Let us also not forget that rural Hokkaido also has plenty of snow, and with it comes the art of yukikaki (snow shoveling) that is the pride of Hokkaidoians – the Dosanko. Much like household chores, yukikaki is a mundane activity many Dosankos do especially in the wee hours of the morning. Dosankos have repeatedly told me that yukikaki was a means of boosting work ethic and instilling discipline in children. I once met a family who chose to start a farm in Hokkaido because they thought it would instill the best work ethic in their children – something urban cities or other rural places in Japan could not offer because of the extra activity of yukikaki. For three years, I simply found yukikaki a chore.

Perhaps I never had good discipline to begin with, nor particularly strong work ethics by Japanese standards. Or was it because I never did yukikaki and thus have no discipline? Which came first? And for this, every winter I was reminded of being the “outsider.”

Indeed, rural Japan and rural Hokkaido carries with it its own set of problems. As I reminisce about the goods and bads of my three years in there, I can only proudly say that I regretted nothing of it. Perhaps my glasses are still rose-tinted till today, or perhaps there is something truly enticing about rural Hokkaido that one cannot simply let go of despite all of its problems.

by Shilla Lee

Recent studies on regional revitalization movements in Japan have explored various local initiatives to mobilize the urban population to rural areas (Klien 2020; Manzenreiter et al. 2020). While they provide us with rich contexts, the discussions seem to revolve around an essentially anthropocentric account of regional sustainability. I want to bring attention to my rough ideas about a new perspective to scrutinize the social implication of regional revitalization movements in Japan: to broaden our discussions beyond the human-human domain by exploring problems of depopulation within the wider panorama of human-wild animal (pestilence) relations.

There have been growing cases of wildlife damage in depopulating regions across the globe. Let me briefly mention an article published by The Guardian in January 2021 (Flyn 2021). It talks about how declining fertility rates have led to serious social problems in wealthy countries like Germany and Japan. However, rather than focusing on issues of birth rate per se, the discussion develops into changing human-animal relations in scarcely populated regions. Highlighting a case of akiya (empty house) in Japan, the article directs our attention to how abandoned farms and gardens are reclaimed by wild animals due to an absence of human existence and how we should be more serious about the contrasting state of shrinking human population and prospering wildlife.

In this context, I suggest that we expand our notion of regional revitalization to non-human beings and question whether regional ‘re’vitalization also implies a power ‘re’distribution between humans and wild animals. When discussing rural social problems such as depopulation, aging, and declining local economy, they are dealt with as issues of human society, precluding social and physical spaces shared (or fought over) with non-human beings. We need to think about whether various strategies that attempt to pull in (attract) the human population such as migrants, tourists, and foreign workers to rural regions also pushes away wild animals that are wandering around once human-dominated habitats. As recent studies on human-wild animal (pestilence) relations show (Enari 2021; Enari and Tsunoda 2017; Tsunoda and Enari 2020), remote village communities lack human forces or community spirits to protect crops from wild animal damage and tensions rising from such conflicts lead to increasing practices of wildlife pestilence to control their population.

The prosperity of wild animals beyond human control “can appear a threatening development that points to the retrenchment of human society rather than a benign revival of nature” (Knight 2003:236). Moreover, at a municipal level, increasing conflicts with wild animals not only create economic damages but also undesirable images of rural livelihood, thereby, affecting key strategies of regional revitalization policies that focus on domestic tourism and urban-rural migration. As Knight points out “the impact of the wildlife pest is not confined to the material damage it causes to individual farmers and foresters but extends to its negative symbolism vis-a-vis the community as a whole” (2003:237). As much as rural areas are relying on incoming tourists and migrants for their economic and social sustainability, any source of negative images poses challenges. In this sense, regional revitalization is not only a matter of increasing the human population but also of adjusting human-wildlife relations.

Let me briefly illustrate Wildlife Damage Forum that was held in Tamba Sasayama during my fieldwork in 2018-2019. One of the main actors that dealt with problems concerning wildlife damage in the region was an NPO named Satomon. According to what is written on their official webpage, their key concern is the “wildlife pestilence problem” (jyūgai mondai) by monkeys, deers and wild boars that threatens a Satoyama lifestyle. They argue that wildlife damage takes away the joys of harvesting by referring to young people who move to rural areas and then give up their dreams of living a peaceful country life: “Young migrants who are fascinated by the countryside and relocated to work on farms also said, ‘I cannot work the fields in such a place’ and are giving up their dreams and leaving the villages” (nōson ni miryoku o kanji, ijūshite shinki shūnō shita wakamono mo,” konna tokoro de nōgyō wa dekinai” to yume o akiramete mura o satteiku). It is in this context that Satomon suggests what they call the “wildlife pestilence measure” (jyūgai taisaku) and organizes Wildlife Damage Forum as one of their key initiatives. 

An event for the year 2019 was held on a cold day in December in a shimin sentā (citizen center) in Tamba Sasayama. Following an opening speech by the mayor, representatives of various local organizations addressed their ideas to tackle the growing damage by wild animals. A group of social scientists first pitched a behavioral observation of wild boars in the region to examine what kind of damage prevention mechanisms would work. The next speaker demonstrated how the aging community and wild animal damage should be thought of together. Lastly, a group of local middle school students presented a school club activity that produces coin purses from leathers of wild deers. What I found interesting was how they all began with an emphasis on the importance of living with wild animals, however, sought co-existence through curtailing the population growth of the latter. For instance, the business idea presented by the middle school students to rethink human-wild animal conflicts as a way to make profits from the latter was premised on the legitimacy of wildlife hunting and other measures to eradicate the overpopulation of deers. Similar ideas were found in local restaurants that promoted wild boar meats as a local delicacy and a wild meat processing business started by a recent urban-rural migrant. Wild animal damage was being cope by residents by reframing it as a source of economic prosperities and attractive elements of the region. 

References

Enari, Hiroto. 2021. “Human-Macaque Conflicts in Shrinking Communities: Recent Achievements and Challenges in Problem Solving in Modern Japan.” Mammal Study 46 (2): 115–30.

Enari, Hiroto, and Hiroshi Tsunoda. 2017. “Emerging Wildlife Issues in an Age of Large-Scale Human Depopulation—Introduction.” Wildlife and Human Society 5 (1): 1–3.

Flyn, Cal. 2021. “As Birth Rates Fall, Animals Prowl in Our Abandoned ‘Ghost Villages.’” The Guardian, January 24, 2021.

Klien, Susanne. 2020. Urban Migrants in Rural Japan: Between Agency and Anomie in a Post-Growth Society. State University of New York Press Albany.

Knight, John. 2003. Waiting for Wolves in Japan: An Anthropological Study of People-Wildlife Relations. Oxford University Press.

Manzenreiter, Wolfram, Ralph Lützeler, and Sebastian Polak-Rottman. 2020. Japan’s New Ruralities: Coping with Decline in the Periphery. Routledge.

Tsunoda, Hiroshi, and Hiroto Enari. 2020. “A Strategy for Wildlife Management in Depopulating Rural Areas of Japan.” Conservation Biology 34 (4): 819–28.

Shilla Lee is a PhD candidate at Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany. Her research focuses on the notion of rurality and creativity in regional revitalization practices and the cooperative activities of traditional craftsmen in Japan.

by Ngo Tu Thanh (Frank Tu)

The venues of policy formulation are a labyrinth of actors, negotiations, calculations, and conflicting interests. Rural revitalization policies are no exception.  Interested in finding out how rural revitalization policies are made, and moreover, how policy actors operate behind the scenes, I knew I would need visit Nagatachō – Japan’s political center.  

On 08 June 2022, I was very fortunate to meet with a veteran who has been navigating politics in Nagatachō for more than 20 years. He is an ideal research participant whom I really wished to interview: after finishing his PhD in Urban Planning at an Ivy League institution, he became a Chief Policy Secretary (kokkai giin seisaku tantō hisho) for several members of the House of Representatives (Shūgiin) and the House of Councilors (Sangiin). In the past, he once ran for the House of Representatives and has considered running for mayor. After losing his parliamentary bid, he decided to work in academia and advocacy. He is now a researcher at a think tank for the LDP, a public policy consultant, and a professor in urban planning. Having had experience in both the Diet, advocacy, and academia, he did not hesitate to speak his mind freely and was able to get down to the nitty-gritty of politics.

I arrived in Nagatachō, where my research participant’s advocacy organization is located. There, I found myself standing in front of a big four-story building. Located within one kilometer from our meeting place are some of the most crucial institutions where rural policies (among others) are made: the National Diet (Kokkai), the Cabinet Office (Naikakufu), the headquarters of the Liberal Democratic Party (Jiyūminshutō), the headquarters of the National Governors’ Association (Zenkoku Chijikai), the headquarters of the National Mayors Association (Zenkoku Shichōkai), the National Association of Chairmen of Prefectural Assemblies (Zenkoku Todōfuken Gikai Gichōkai) and the National Association of the Chairpersons of Town and Village Assemblies (Zenkoku Chōsongikai Gichōkai). The presence of police officers and guards everywhere further evoked my anxiety. After a few seconds of hesitation, I took a deep breath and entered the building.

An employee opened the door and guided me to the couch where my research participant was sitting. After greeting each other, I followed him to a spacious conference room on the top floor, where I conducted the interview. On our way I saw officers in black suits rushing around, people whispering softly to each other in different corners, and some cautiously making phone calls by the window. My interview partner shared with me that his organization accommodates many former national and local politicians, ambassadors and governmental officials. Advocacy organizations like this are part of the intriguingly complicated policymaking process, which involves the national government, the national Diet, local governments, local assemblies, and private organizations.

According to my research participant, first, revitalization policies are drafted by relevant ministries (i.e., Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communication; Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry; Ministry of Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism). Then, the policies are compiled by the Headquarters for Regional Revitalization, which is located in the Cabinet Office. The Headquarters for Regional Revitalization is where officials from relevant ministries meet and discuss their responsibilities and jurisdiction.

At the same time, the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), also has its partisan counterparts of the Cabinet Office and the Headquarters for Regional Revitalization, namely the Policy Research Council (Seimu Chōsakai) and the Headquarters for Overcoming Population Decline and Regional Revitalization (Chihō Sōsei Jikō Tōgō Honbu). Politicians belonging to this LDP’s organ will voice their desires to influence the plans proposed by the Cabinet Office and relevant ministries. They will push for what is beneficial to their constituencies such as IT promotion, or attracting young people to the countryside.

Besides, associations that represent prefectures and municipalities also actively lobby for policies in their favor. The National Governors’ Association, the Headquarters of the National Mayors Association, the National Association of Chairmen of Prefectural Assemblies, and the National Association of the Chairpersons of Town and Village Assemblies. These associations present proposals (teigensho) that favor their localities at large.

Finally, there are also advocacy organizations that work for the interests of private businesses. For instance, the Japan Business Federation (Keidanren) or my research participant’s organization often lobby for clients who want national and/or local governments to adopt favorable policies. Hence, in addition to lobbying activities in Nagatachō, his organization also reaches out to  local governments all over Japan. In particular, such advocacy organizations often formulate their own proposals and meet with relevant politicians. My interview partner asserted that while not always successful, private advocacy organizations do have great sway in policymaking.

After all these behind-the-scenes constant interactions, negotiations, lobbying and pressuring between myriads of actors, the official rural revitalization policies are decided on. As complicated as it sounds, this interview has intrigued me greatly and prompted me to proceed to the next stage of my research – the prefectural and municipal levels, which I am now very much looking forward to.