by Maritchu Durand

This year in early May, I took a few days off to visit my family in the south-western French countryside and to enjoy the mild and sunny spring. The region’s nickname “the French Toscana” suits the hilly region with small fields of cereal grain or sunflowers well. A few kettle farms spread over the country and small quiet villages with old stone farmhouses, vegetable gardens and the obligatory area for playing pétanque [1] on the village square right next to the small church and a one-room city hall can be found here and there.

Traditionally an agrarian region, most of the farmers are now either close to retirement or do other jobs on the side. They are usually part of a cooperative that sell their crops to bigger firms. However, amid this rather industrial production chain, there are exceptions that started in the 1968’s back-to-the-land movement that seek alternative and more direct ways to connect farmers and consumers.

One such example is the “Poppy Cabin”, a 30 minutes walk from my grandparents’ village. You can enter the bright red cabin from the small countryside road. Although it is in the courtyard of the farmer who manages it, I never meet anyone. Depending on the season, there are different products for sale, all either certified organic or from the so-called “reasoned agriculture” [2]. The farmer sells mostly cereals and pulses in various forms that he produces: dried lentils and chick peas, rye, spelt, wheat or chick pea flour are almost always available. You can also find honey, sunflower oil, onions, garlic or different root vegetables and a local artisan’s hand-made soap.

Once you have filled your basked, you simply write down your name a well as what you bought and how much you paid on the ledger and put the money in the small wooden box on the table. It is a system based on trust and a strong network: there are no signs on the cabin, it merely works by word of mouth. At the same time, by writing down your name, you lose the anonymity usually linked to consumption.

While browsing through the home-made packages of flour, I was strongly reminded of a very similar system in Japan: the mujin hanbai stalls – mujin stands for “without anyone”, and hanbai for “sale”. When I travelled through the Japanese countryside, I frequently encountered small stalls on the side of the road. Usually very rustic and simple shelves that are filled with produce packaged by locals: mikan, umeboshi, daikon and many other local and seasonal products for an astonishingly cheap price. I was very surprised when I first saw an umeboshi stall. It was so cheap that I thought I was mistaken, I therefore hesitated, afraid of paying the wrong price, and I passed by without buying anything. I regret it until this day.

Although different in its interpretation, the core of both systems is the same in Japan and in France. It is a system based on trust within a small community. First, the seller trusts the consumer to pay the right price, take only what he or she paid for and leave the place unharmed. In return, the customer trusts the producer with the quality and safety of the product. Since it is locally grown in a place the customer sees and values, he or she might find a meaning in buying the produce beyond the mere fact of consuming. This is at least what my grandmother told me when she first brought me to the Poppy Cabin: she wanted to support the local farmer, a young passionate return migrant who had taken up his grandfather’s farm. She praised the quality and unique taste of the products she regularly bought and appreciated the ‘no-fuss’ aspect of the system.

The Poppy Cabin and the mujin hanbai stalls share the principles of mutual trust, attachment to a  community, appreciation of the soil and its produce and connecting producers and consumers. All are aspects that are often associated with an ideal countryside. In the interviews and articles by urban-rural migrants I encountered while working on this project, they mention these aspects very often as the very reasons for moving to the countryside. Although the Poppy Cabin and the mujin hanbai stalls are only small and rare realizations of those principles, they might prove that the ideal images prospective migrants express about the countryside might be more than mere imagination.

[1] Pétanque or boules is a popular game in France where players through heavy metal balls towards a smaller wooden target ball. It is played on village squares and enjoys great popularity in southern France.

[2] The French Ministry of Agriculture defines reasoned agriculture (l’agriculture raisonnée) as a type of farm management that aims at reinforcing the positive impacts of agricultural practices on the environment and at reducing their negative effects. Closely linked to organic farming, it does not however require any certification.

by Sebastian Polak-Rottmann

I visited the Aso region in Kumamoto Prefecture several times between 2018 and 2020 to conduct research for my PhD project. I talked to local people who engage in local activities about their views on happiness. Here, I will concentrate on different patterns of participation that I encountered during my research. I observed several ways in which people try to influence their local communities. Most people emphasised that they like to make others happy or share the local natural landscape with others and therefore collectively make significant effort to preserve it. However, when arriving in Aso for the first time in 2018, I came across an exceptional case of local activism aimed at preserving the local scenery. A local livestock farmer decided to build a cattle barn close to a train station in Aso-city. While regional organisations and the regional administration initially supported the project financially, local inhabitants opposed the location of the facility, as they feared a deterioration of the hamlet’s quality of life. I met two representatives of the so-called Movement for the Relocation of the Construction Site of the Big Cattle Barn (Ōgata gyūsha kensetsuchi no iten o motomeru kai) that used a number of strategies of political participation to channel residents’ voices. The movement consisted of a number of local people and former bureaucrats who collected signatures from about 8,000 people for a petition, contacted local as well as prefectural politicians, and even organised a demonstration on a cold winter’s day [1].

The demonstration was a quite unusual event for the rural Aso region where many people usually use informal ways to influence local politics, as Mariko, a woman in her 60s emphasises: “I usually go directly to the mayor, if I have a proposal. The mayor went to the same school as my brother, so I just go to him and say: ‘This is what I want to do’. He even visited us once and I think he recognises my face by now and so things will be easier next time”. Protesting against a cattle barn is also a controversial matter in another sense: Aso is famous for its akaushi-beef, which is served in a number of restaurants for tourists around the whole region. Cows are an integral part of the distinctive grassland (sōgen) of the Aso caldera and some of the farmers engage in the local grassland associations (bokuya kumiai) and the traditional burning of the grass (noyaki) in February and March.

Due to the importance of livestock farming in Aso, the protest challenging the local farming industry needed to be done in a careful manner: The name of the movement emphasises that the protesters do not oppose the construction of a cattle barn per se but rather wish for another site for the building. It is not surprising that those, who criticise the whole funding and construction process in a more encompassing way, soon left the movement, which did not seek open confrontation with local policy makers. In the end, the cattle barn was built and the movement did not reach its goal of relocating the barn. Also, the municipality that – due to pressure from civil society – tried to withdraw the financial aid for its construction ultimately had to pay compensation to the facility’s owner.

This example shows that people link their activities to their local community and that some forms of political participation are more acceptable and feasible than others. The protest for the relocation of the cattle barn is a rather exceptional case, as it is elite-challenging in its nature. One of my research participants illustrated the otherwise cooperative mode of participation dominant in the region: “When I think, that something good should be done, I’ll do it with my friends (nakama). Then, little by little, the scope will increase. We are not doing an opposition movement (hantai undō), that’s not what I imagine [as shimin undō]”.

Political participation in rural Aso takes place in the context of local decision-making processes that are linked to dominant perceptions of what “Aso” should be like. Oppositional movements are rare and are not viewed as an option of political participation by many of my respondents. Nevertheless, the municipalities are vibrant and show numerous small changes often taking place in the informal everyday lives of the local community. Subjective goals and ideas have to be carefully adjusted to the dominant power structures in rural Japan, sometimes making expressive activities hard to perform, as the example of the movement for the relocation of the cattle barn suggests.

Sebastian Polak-Rottmann is a PhD candidate at the Department of East Asian Studies at the University of Vienna. He is part of an interdisciplinary research project funded by the Austrian Academy of Sciences on subjective well-being and social capital in rural Japan. For his dissertation, he conducted semi-structured interviews in the Aso region to understand the relationship of political participation and subjective well-being.

References

[1]
Gotō, Tazuko. 2017. ‘Gyūsha kensetsuchi ‚iten o‘, Aso-shi ni jūmin ga seigansho, shomeibo, kankeisha no taiō kamiawazu, Kumamoto-ken’. In Asahi Shinbun, 16.12.2017: 28.

by Chris McMorran

In January 2022 I was finally able to visit Japan after a two-year gap. Two years of lockdowns, canceled research trips, and courses, meetings, and conferences moved online. Covid-19 disrupted my annual cycle of taking students to Kumamoto each May, visiting Tokyo for short holidays, and visiting family in Kumamoto each New Year’s. My return in January 2022 coincided with 10 months of sabbatical away from NUS and Japan’s reluctant opening to non-Japanese visitors. I could only enter because of my Japanese partner. Japan’s tight regulations on foreign visitors had been polling strongly and boosting PM Kishida’s government, so I expected to find a “closed country” mentality on the streets of Tokyo and Kumamoto, where I split three months.

Instead, I found people as polite and welcoming as ever. Kids playing in the street in my in-laws’ neighbourhood said hello. Staff in shops and restaurants welcomed us enthusiastically. But I did not yet feel comfortable doing interviews or even visiting my usual fieldwork sites, around Kurokawa Onsen (Kumamoto). I feared introducing the coronavirus to the spaces and people I care about so much. I owed a massive debt to those people and did not want to jeopardize my future with them. So I spent my time researching spaces and ideas on the periphery of my main focus: the intersection of tourism and work in rural Japan. And I took advantage of our new shared technological abilities, sharing my latest work in online lectures. 

During my three months in Japan I gave lectures for audiences at International Christian University (Tokyo), Kanazawa University and the German Institute for Japanese Studies (DIJ). Under the heightened restrictions from the Omicron wave of January and February 2022, all three talks were moved online. While I felt some disappointment, I was also uplifted by the fact that the online talks could be attended by a truly global audience. My lecture on ryokan for International Christian University could be attended by ICU professors and students, as well as ICU alumni (including one who currently works in a ryokan!), and some of my own students in Singapore. My lecture for Kanazawa University could be attended by super-busy ryokan owners from distant Kurokawa Onsen, and my lecture for the German Institute for Japanese Studies could be attended by researchers based in Europe. These lectures reminded me how broad the global interest is in rural Japan, as well as how inclusive and supportive the network of scholars is.

While in Tokyo, I was excited to encounter instances of rural Japan reimagined as a new space of combined tourism and work, in the form of the “workation” (work+vacation) Posters in trains and train platforms showed happy individuals sitting in the great outdoors, their laptops strategically open before them. Covid-19 reminded everyone of the inherent risks associated with congested urban spaces. Rural areas have provided a way to escape such risks—and even enjoy one’s work—by working remotely (“telework”). The rural workation moves beyond working from home, which carries its own risks of burnout. Rural Japan—accessible by train—promises the ideal solution. Seeing so many reminders of this reimagination of rural Japan was enough to spur a new research project, one that would have been unlikely had I not returned to Japan. 

I also visited one of Japan’s oldest onsen, Dōgo Onsen in Ehime, to see how it was weathering the Covid-19 storm. Shopping streets that in normal times would be brimming with shops selling local delicacies and flooded with tourists sat half empty. Some shops were temporarily shuttered. In the shops that were open, staff waited eagerly for the next customer to arrive. The lack of guests meant we could easily bathe in Dōgo’s most famous public baths, without waiting in lines that can normally last hours. It was a reminder that Japan’s tourism industry has a long road to recovery from the coronavirus disruption. My time in Japan was over too quickly, but I was grateful I could reconnect with the country and be stimulated by new potential research avenues. 

Chris McMorran is Associate Professor of Japanese Studies at the National University of Singapore. He is a cultural geographer of contemporary Japan who researches the geographies of home across scale, from the body to the nation. His is the author of Ryokan: Mobilizing Hospitality in Rural Japan (2022, University of Hawai’i Press), an intimate study of a Japanese inn, based on twelve months spent scrubbing baths, washing dishes, and making guests feel at home at a hot springs resort. He also co-produces (with NUS students) “Home on the Dot,” a podcast that explores the meaning of home on the little red dot of Singapore.

by Sarah Bijlsma

This week, Japan celebrated the 50-year anniversary of Okinawa’s return to the mainland. After being governed by the US since the end of WWII, the administration of the prefecture was handed back to prime minister Eisaku Satō (1901-1975) on the 15^th of May 1972. On the anniversary day, the central and national governments held ceremonies simultaneously in Tokyo and Okinawa including a video message from the Japanese Emperor and Empress. In the months before the anniversary, national and local media platforms took the opportunity to publish articles, interviews, and visual content that address various aspects of Okinawa Prefecture. In this blogpost, I will discuss two examples that illustrate the different ways the Japanese media represents the prefecture.

One strand of publications echoes hegemonic discourses of ‘Okinawa difference,’ including romanticized representations of the islands’ distinct culture and social life [1]. NHK, for example, since April broadcasts the morning drama Chimudondon. The asadora tells the story of a farmer’s daughter from the lush Yanbaru area, who opens an Okinawan restaurant in Tokyo in her adult life. The scenes are full of natural sceneries, local dishes, traditional crafts, and the large families Okinawa is known for. In the third episode, when the girl is still a child, she talks with the father of a friend who just moved from the capital to her small village. Standing under a shikuwasa tree with the blue sea shines bright in the background, she wonders out loud, “Isn’t Tokyo a much more interesting place?” The man replies: “You know, to you this village is your hometown.” “My hometown?” the girl looks confused [2]. The natural environment, genuine human relationships, and use of the Japanese term furusato for hometown instantly evokes a nostalgic feeling for all that is lost in urbanized Japan.

What is noticeable, however, is that in addition to such romanticized representations media channels gave much attention to the ongoing social and economic issues the prefecture is facing—a different translation of ‘Okinawa difference.’ Especially regarding the US military presence on the islands and the relocation of the Futenma base to Henoko, news platforms do not shy away of featuring critical voices. Asahi Shinbun, for example, featured an interview with a woman who joined the protest march that was held in the streets of Naha on 15 May 1972. She recalls that on the day of the reversion, rain came pouring from the sky. It was not a celebrative atmosphere; while she was only a high school student, she was somehow aware that it was not the return that she had wanted. Yet only years later, when she started working with children herself, she became to understand the irrationality of the situation in Okinawa more deeply. Even after the reversion to Japan, sexual assaults of children and women by US soldiers and helicopter accidents continued to occur significantly. The woman states that she feels that Okinawans are treated as if their lives do not matter much. Land reclamation in the Henoko sea continues, while she does not believe that there is anyone in the prefecture who agrees with that [3].  

During the ceremonies on the 15^th of May, many references were made to Okinawa’s present-day issues as well. Prime Minister Fumio Kishida acknowledged Okinawa’s lacking economy and continuing burden of the bases, pledging to “steadily make visible progress on the alleviation of the burden while maintaining the deterrence offered by the Japan-U.S. alliance” [4]. Okinawa governor Denny Tamaki urged the central government to turn Okinawa finally into “islands of peace” [5]. These statements and the media coverage illustrate that there is an increasing ground to openly debate social issues in present-day Japan. People more often take a clear stance; a newly conducted survey by Kyodo News showed that ca. 80% of the Japanese does not find it fair compared to other prefectures that Okinawa hosts more than 70% of Japan’s US military bases [6]. It is my hope that these and other debates continue to be held in and outside of Okinawa, also after this ‘anniversary’ year.

References

[1] See for example Hein, Ina. 2010. “Constructing difference in Japan: Literary counter-images of the Okinawa boom”, Contemporary Japan 22, 179-204.

[2] Chimudondon. NHK, 2022. Episode 3.

[3] Asahi Shimbun. 11 May 2022. (fukki 50 nen, sorezore no Okinawa) demo shashin ni, kōkōsei datta watashi kyōin ni nari rikai shita, Okinawa ga seou rifujin [(50 years after return, every Okinawa) I was a high school student on the photo of the demonstration, when I became a teacher I understood the irrationality that burdens Okinawa].

[4] Kyodo News. 15 May 2022. “Okinawa marks 50 years since reversion to Japan.” Via: https://english.kyodonews.net/news/2022/05/48ab72b43dd5-okinawa-marks-50-years-since-reversion-from-us-rule-as-bases-remain.html

[5] Kyodo News. 15 May 2022. “Okinawa marks 50 years since reversion to Japan.” Via: https://english.kyodonews.net/news/2022/05/48ab72b43dd5-okinawa-marks-50-years-since-reversion-from-us-rule-as-bases-remain.html

[6] Japan Times. 5 May 2022. “Nearly 80% of Japanese think Okinawa’s base-hosting unfair”.

by Cecilia Luzi

In April 2022, my first year as a PhD student came to an end. Since maternity leave kept me away from my office for about seven months last year, my schedule changed, and I just entered what is supposed to be the “fieldwork year”. During the last months, I have been following migrants in Hasami and Buzen mainly through their social media profiles. Recently, I reached out to some of them, and I started to listen to their stories about the migration experience via Zoom. I will write more about this experience in the future, but in this post, I would like to follow up on Professor Reiher’s last article and reflect about doing research during a global pandemic.

When we started working in the project in October 2020, we did not realize yet that being able to be in Berlin at the same time, was already a great chance. Our offices face each other and being physically close encouraged the team spirit a lot. Moreover, when all classes for PhD students took place online, and most of other members of our cohort at GEAS were stuck in Japan, Korea or somewhere else in Europe, being here on campus helped us not to lose track of our own PhD projects. By  simply being able to say hello in the morning across the corridor or have a chat while making coffee in the kitchen has been very helpful during these months.

Together, we developed ideas about how to continue our research during the pandemic. We went through a process of adapting our respective research together. Very often, we discussed how to overcome bureaucratic obstacles or just encouraged each other. Together we managed to remain positive even during confusing times. For instance, when the Japanese government closed borders again in the aftermath of the emergence of the Omicron variant in late 2021, the “Urban-rural migration and rural revitalization in Japan” research group was my source of strength even when working from home. I can never thank them enough.

Yet, this was not our only support group. While learning how the digital space could be used to access the research field from our desks, we also started to use digital meeting tools to reach out other students and researchers with similar interests. In a short time, we set up an online study group meeting once a month. After a year and many meetings, I can confidently say that these meeting were incredibly useful for developing a research network, receiving feedback and discovering new research paths. The atmosphere in the study group is very cooperative and informal and I really enjoyed these moments of exchange with people from outside the team. I am very grateful to all the participants who stayed with us during all these months, and I really hope we will be able to meet in person one day soon.

Last but not the least, this blog was of course another door to the outside world and still keeps us connected with researchers on rural Japan and beyond. Contributions come from people with all sorts of backgrounds, different origins, and various interests, which makes the blog rich and vibrant. For me, writing in a blog is both a chance to reflect on the practice of dissemination of academic knowledge and an exercise of awareness for positionality. In fact, while putting my observations and thoughts out for a wider and more diversified public, I am forced to spend time reflecting about what parts of my research I want the blog’s audience to see and how I can convey them in less than 800 words. I experienced how a blog can “become a workspace for the ethnographer” (Beaulieu 2004, p.151).

The fabric of social relations is what kept me afloat during these years of the pandemic. This is especially true when it comes to my PhD. Whether in the office wearing masks, or over Webex having Christmas parties, exchanging ideas and encouraging each other, within and outside our team, has always brought back the enthusiasm of the beginning. I value the relations built both in the “real” and “virtual” world. If there is one important lesson these hard times taught me, it is that social connections always can find a way through pandemic lockdowns, isolation and overcome any distance.

References

Beaulieu, A. 2004. Mediating ethnography: objectivity and the making of ethnographies of the internet, Social Epistemology, 18:2-3, 139-163,

by Cornelia Reiher

It has already been a year since we started this blog in March 2021 to report on our research in the DFG project “Urban-rural migration and rural revitalization in Japan.” I launched the blog to share first insights from (online) fieldwork and to connect with other researchers and practitioners in Europe and Asia. Throughout this year our team experienced hope and disappointments with regard to our fieldwork plans. Japan first lifted its Covid-induced entry ban in November 2021 and closed the borders again in December. Instead of waiting around, however, all of us conducted online research. This included, for example, online interviews, social media research and participant observation in online events. We also continued our online study group. In the winter term 2021/22 we launched a lecture series. Colleagues and students presented their research and we discovered interesting parallels or connections between the different projects discussing urban-rural migration and rural issues in and beyond Japan. This summer we will experiment with different formats, including workshop-style discussion groups and lectures.

The blog became an important venue to channel our thoughts and to present our experiences and first results. By doing so, we also reached out to other researchers and students whom we invited to write about their own research on rural Japan, urban-rural migration and methodological challenges during the pandemic. Because we could not go to Japan ourselves, we asked some of our research participants to write about the situation in rural Japan, about themselves and about their rural revitalization activities. Our network expanded faster than we expected and we were able to publish one blogpost a week. Up to now there are 56 posts authored by 24 different contributors, many of them members of our online study group. Surprisingly, we were contacted by people who found our blog online and some of them later became authors, collaborators or research participants. Motivated by this experience, we created an Instagram account to reach even more people.

We also used the blog to share information about our online events and lectures. We have presented preliminary results of this project in November 2021 at the Urban-Rural Study Group meeting of the German Association for Social Science Research on Japan (VSJF). Team members also individually presented their work in different contexts. One of this year’s highlights was our joint study group with Sachie Oka’s lab from Kyushu University. Frank and Cecilia presented their research in Japanese and we had very interesting discussions with Oka sensei’s Phd and MA students. We will meet online again in order to strengthen our cooperation with researchers and peers from Japan. In April we also met with members of the Aso Project at the University of Vienna  to exchange experiences with research about rural Kyushu. In June, Chris McMorran from NUS, who is a member of our study group and also authored a blog post, will join FU Berlin as a visiting researcher and present his new book. We hope for more onsite exchange like this in the future!

Finally, the blog also served as a means to raise our team spirit during the long periods when we could not meet in person. Working together on the short blog posts, sharing feedback and reading other people’s posts, helped to feel closer as a team. Other things, of course, raised our team spirits even more. In February, we received a surprise parcel from Chris who had already entered Japan. He sent sweets from Kumamoto. This was a great culinary motivation during a time when we did not know when Japan would reopen its borders for researchers and students. But most of all, meeting with the other team members in Berlin and to discover new things about rural areas together, cheered us up. In April we went on a fieldtrip to Brandenburg to talk to German urban-rural migrants in our vicinity and it was a wonderful opportunity to spend time with the team before we have to meet online again. But this time this is due to Frank’s departure to Japan. Cecilia and Sarah will hopefully go to Japan this fall. Closing this blog post on this happy news, I would also like to thank everyone who contributed to this blog! I am especially grateful to Maritchu Durand for doing an excellent job designing and regularly uploading everyone’s posts and for creating and updating our Instagram account. I am looking forward to another year of interesting contributions about rural Japan. This summer, I am also using the blog as a resource for teaching undergraduate students at FUB about Japan’s rural areas.

by Ngo Tu Thanh (Frank Tu)

There has been an abundance of studies demonstrating that the outflow of people from rural areas to urban cities for work and education purposes is one of the main rural challenges. However, the outbreak of COVID-19 has forced countries around the world, including Japan, to utilize virtual modes of working and learning. Social distancing allows for greater flexibility since employees and students are no longer required to be physically present. As Zoom, Microsoft Teams, Webex, and other meeting applications became household names as a byproduct of COVID-19, I was really curious to figure out if the pandemic and the growing popularity of telework and e-learning might have any impact on rural Japan.

There have been reports of people fleeing Tokyo to other regions to escape COVID-19. For instance, 400,000 people were reported to have left Tokyo in 2020 [1], and the number of those moving away from Tokyo in 2022 was even higher than that in 2021 [2]. Moreover, telework also is said to have long-lasting potential. According to Yamamoto (2020), 25% of those who had worked remotely were interested in moving to rural areas. These numbers seem to suggest an increase of urban-rural migration in Japan against the backdrop of the COVID-19 pandemic [3].

In order to further explicate the impact of COVID-19 on rural areas, I have conducted online interviews and written exchanges with five national policy actors in Japan. They include a high-ranking official at the Headquarters for Regional Revitalization (Cabinet Office), three Advisors for Regional Vitality (Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications), and one high-ranking official of the Japan Organization for Internal Migration (JOIN).

It has become clear from the exchanges that all five research participants were optimistic about an increase in urban-rural migrants, particularly due to the growing popularity and adoption of telework and e-learning. However, whether telework can have long-lasting effects on rural areas depends on whether Japan’s companies and organizations continue to allow for this mode of working, even after the COVID pandemic. 

The official at the Headquarters for Regional Revitalization said that the COVID-19 pandemic might have had a positive impact on urban-rural migration, particularly due to people’s changing attitudes towards migration and the emergence of telework. He stated: “While the COVID-19 pandemic has caused damage to the regional economy and society, it has changed people’s mindset and behavior as evidenced by a decline in the net inflow of population into the Tokyo region, an increase in people’s interest in migration to regions and the penetration of telework.” [4]

The Advisors for Regional Vitality also were also in agreement regarding the roles of the COVID-19 pandemic and immigration. First, they believed that the pandemic might have presented a great opportunity for urban-rural migration. The advisors explained that telework allows employees to work from rural areas while still maintaining their urban salaries. This can increase employees’ disposable income as living expenses are comparatively cheaper in rural areas. Similarly, e-learning may also allow students to attend courses at universities in urban cities while living in their hometowns. However, according to the advisors, such a positive impact of COVID-19 on rural revitalization could only last in the long term if Japanese companies and organizations allowed for this new style of working to continue post-COVID. 

Similarly, the JOIN manager also believed that the pandemic would have a positive impact on migration to rural areas. He said that before the pandemic, many companies in Tokyo had already planned to move to telework for they expected that Tokyo would be overcrowded during the Tokyo Olympics. However, COVID-19 had accelerated the transition to telework. Indeed, he stated that Japanese people are moving and working remotely from places around Tokyo such as Chiba, Kanagawa, and Saitama. Finally, he also believed teleworking from places outside of Tokyo would increase disposable income.

In the early days of the pandemic, there were various efforts to incentivize Tokyo-based employees to work remotely from depopulated areas. For instance, in 2020 a company launched a “co-working space bus tour”, which visited different municipalities outside of Tokyo. The tour was a rare attempt in Japan to bring teleworkers together [5]. However, we are currently in the third year of the COVID-19 pandemic. As companies and educational institutions around Japan are slowly getting back to the traditional style that requires on-site presence, it is important to consider the potential of telework and e-learning for urban-rural migration and rural revitalization. Will Japan capitalize on this opportunity, or will it discard the three years of expertise with online working and learning? I would be very interested to follow up on this.  

References

[1] Teh, C. (2021) ‘400,000 people have fled Tokyo in a 2020 pandemic exodus, seeking cheaper and less crowded cities’, Insider. Available at: https://www.insider.com/400000-people-flee-tokyo-in-2020-pandemic-exodus-2021-3.

[2] Koizumi, H. (2022) ‘More people leave Tokyo’s 23 wards than move in during 2021’, The Asahi Shimbun. Available at: https://www.asahi.com/ajw/articles/14538705.

[3] Yamamoto, T. (2020) ‘1 in 4 teleworkers mulling ditching Japan’s big cities for rural areas’, The Asahi Shimbun. Available at: https://www.asahi.com/ajw/articles/13479412.

[4] Written response from the research participant (2021).

[5] Mainichi Shimbun (2020) ‘Rimōto wāku saizensen: kowākingu tsuā basu de katamichi 90 kiro idõshinagaramo hataraku hito mo aidea mo bunsan’. Available at: https://mainichi.jp/articles/20200124/ddm/012/100/077000c.

by Maritchu Durand

It has now been more than two years that the Covid-19 pandemic has affected many aspects of our lives, including the way we conduct research for our project. Since none of us could go to Japan to conduct fieldwork, we decided to broaden our perspective and to take a look at urban-rural migration in our vicinity. I had seen a short documentary on neo-rurals on the European public service channel arte [1] recently, featuring a community project founded by former residents of Berlin in the capital’s surrounding region Brandenburg. I contacted them and got a quick and positive response: our team was welcome to pay a visit if we wished to get to know the place better. On a cool Saturday morning at the end of March, we packed our sandwiches, put on our hiking shoes and set off to Brandenburg.

Without a car, there are two possibilities to go there: either by bus that drives by every hour or so, or a 10 kilometer walk. We chose the second option and passed through small sleepy villages in-between large fields and pine forests. Surrounded by nature, I was expecting to find a community embedded in its natural environment, with inclines towards self-sufficiency, organic produce and sustainable farming. Previously, I had heard of farms in Brandenburg selling their local produce on markets in the capital. But what we found was slightly different and surprising.

After a two hour walk and a cold picknick on the damp grass, we were happy to reach the small village where the community project is located. Just across the pebble stone road, facing the church, is the entrance of Hof Prädikow: an abandoned complex that hosted many different buildings for different activities such as a forge, a brewery, a bakery and different storage buildings. Passing the gates, we entered the first courtyard: while the small café, the adjacent barn and an old building were already in use, most of the other buildings were either under construction or still rather run down. As soon as we arrived, one of the residents, whom I had previously emailed, greeted and invited us to sit and enjoy some home-made sweets and coffee.

In the café, we had the opportunity to talk to our host about the community project, how it came to be and how it functioned. It is run by a collective that currently consists of 60 adults and 30 children, mainly from Berlin. All members have already moved or will soon be moving to the village. The community is organized in specialized groups that are responsible for and possess expertise on different key fields in the community. It is based on the principle of sociocracy. Each adult member has a voice and participates in the decision-making process. One of the important decisions the community collectively makes is whom to accept as a new member and resident. They receive many applications and carefully choose its members, making sure they fit their mindset and agree to their overall goal to live together. But what did those individuals seek in the countryside? For some, it is a life surrounded by nature to raise their children as well as a life within a community. The latter refers to the feeling of being part of a collective and being able to realize personal projects within a group. Most of the residents want to get away from the city. Although the community is not designed as a weekend destination some residents seem to still be very much connected to the capital and keep their apartments in the city to return whenever necessary.

While living in the cooperatively owned apartments, residents initiate different events and projects. One project is the Café where locals and visitors of all ages can meet while enjoying a drink, a hearty homemade meal or artisanal cakes. Other projects include as a co-working space, a barn for events organized by locals and newcomers. Realizing these projects and the costly renovation of the old buildings was only possible thanks to several sponsors. I was surprised to find out that many actors from NPOs to regional and national governments were involved in financing the project.

This was a very interesting trip that allowed us to get a glimpse into urban-rural migration at our doorsteps. It was not exactly what I had expected. While I thought I would find more connections to agriculture and nature, the focus of the community was rather on communal and shared living. I was also surprised by how popular communal living is in Germany, something I have not come across in Japan – at least to that extent. On the contrary, some problems seemed to be quite similar to what we have seen in Japan, especially the relationship they had with the local population, between consensus building, skeptical beginnings and ideological differences. Do these types of community also exist in Japan? This is a question yet to be explored.

[1] https://www.arte.tv/de/videos/093706-001-A/re-der-lockruf-der-provinz/

by Sarah Bijlsma

In order to make tamanu oil, you first need a tree known as penaga laut or nyamplung (Calophyllum inophyllum) or terihaboku in Japanese. In the local dialect of Ikema-jima, a small island just off the coast of Miyako, this tree is called yarab. The local population of Ikema-jima has been planting yarab trees since the times of the Ryūkyū Kingdom on shores and around agricultural fields. Together with the lower adan tree (Pandanus odoratissimus), these lines of vegetation serve as windbreaks against the strong northern winds that come from the ocean. As such, they protect crops from damage by outside forces, while simultaneously preventing ki (energy) to flow out of the island.

Yarab trees bloom in the spring and fall and often bear fruit throughout the year. The fruits are round and a few centimeters in size, have a greyish green color and pungent taste. While humans generally do not consume the fruits, the bats on Ikema-jima are fond of them. At night, they pick them from the trees and eat the pulp with their small teeth. The seed inside the fruit is too hard to eat and hence dropped. Bats only eat those fruits that are free from chemicals; finding yarab seeds on the ground is a sign that no pesticides are used.

The local population celebrates yarab trees as symbols of fertility and scolds them for the many seeds and fruits that are lying around everywhere. Yet, recently the Ikema residents began to view them from a new perspective. After working for seven years for the Ikema Welfare Support Center (Ikema fukushi shien sentaa), Kanagawa-born Tomoko Miwa realized that creating jobs for the island’s children in the future would help Ikema island the most. Together with her husband she started Yarabu Tree, a small company that plants yarab trees and produces tamanu oil from their seeds.

A first step in the oil production process is to go out and collect the seeds. In this, Tomoko and her husband are helped by Ikema’s obaa-san and ojii-san. At that point, the seeds are still wrapped in a hard brown shell that needs to be cracked with a hammer or nutcracker—another job for the elderly islanders. Tomoko explains to me that planting yarab trees helps against soil erosion, but the oil production process also enhances the social relationships between the islanders. “There are of course people who are not able to receive salaries like we do, who are disabled, or who cannot live a normal life for any other reason. These individuals quickly withdraw from [social life on] the island” [1]. An example are the many old men on Ikema-jima who develop drinking issues. Without having anything better to do, they start early in the morning, and just wait until the evening comes, drinking by themselves. “Our idea was that with Yarabu Tree, these people can get a job that they can do anytime anywhere, in their own pace, with people they like […]. Bit by bit, we touched upon different kinds of people and while we had never imagined that before, these people built relationships with one another. Of course, they receive money because that is important too, but what surprised us the most is how the relationship between the people on the island is changing gradually” [2].

After the shells are removed, the seeds are washed and dried in the sun. This process can take up to three months. Tomoko has tried to dry the seeds mechanically but concluded that much of the natural resin is lost in that way. When it is time, the seeds are turned into tamanu oil by using cold-pressing techniques. The oil is sold pure, as body oil, or mixed with the flowers of shell ginger (Alpinia zerumbet). The Yarabu Forest that Tomoko and her husband began will be turned into a commons when fully grown. In this way, everyone on the island can go and collect the seeds, crack the shells, and produce the oil by themselves.

Tamanu oil is a product of multi-species collaboration and co-habitation. Tree, bat, and human work together to secure each other’s livelihoods. “[When I first told the obaa-san and ojii-san about my plans], they were like, ‘that is definitely impossible! Those fallen things, let’s just throw them with the garbage’” [3]. Tomoko laughs and says that the locals still can hardly believe that people in big cities actually buy the product. This illustrates how tamanu oil creates a bridge between Ikema-jima’s local traditions and people in Japanese metropoles who support the island through buying the products. Tamanu oil also connects Miyako’s long-term residents and newcomers. “I think that you heard this as well, but it is true that the people who migrated [to the Miyako Islands] and the people from here usually do not have so much contact with one another. They have separate communities, and the migrants are not so interested or involved with the islanders, I believe. But the tamanu oil that we produce is made by the elderly of the island, you know. […] And the migrants are very interested in [the oil], which means that there is a connection after all, I think” [3].

[1] Interview with Tomoko Miwa, 23 March 2022.
[2] Interview with Tomoko Miwa, 23 March 2022.
[3] Interview with Tomoko Miwa, 23 March 2022.
[4] Interview with Tomoko Miwa, 23 March 2022.

by Cecilia Luzi

As many posts on this blog have shown, rural Japan is diverse. The experiences of living in rural areas vary according to geographical, economic or demographic conditions. But local or prefectural authorities, the central government and individual citizens spread an image of an idealized rural life which is highly homogeneous. Images of idealized rural lifestyles are not something new, and in times of the Covid pandemic, digital media are becoming the perfect tool to circulate new images of rural lifestyles.

Migrants use social media to share information about their lives and their jobs, often on a daily base. The great creativity in terms of creating jobs and businesses always strikes me when I go through migrants’ profiles. Many are owners of small independent businesses such as cafes, shops, guesthouses and wellness-related enterprises. This plurality in urban-rural migrants’ entrepreneurship was already discovered by other authors who have studied urban-rural migration in Japan. Among young urbanites’ reasons for leaving the metropolis is their desire to live and work in a community with close social ties and enjoyable interactions with people from this community [1].

Migrant entrepreneurs become part of social networks which extend beyond work. They participate in local markets, buy ingredients from small local farms, organize events for the town and receive help from and exchange vegetables with their neighbors. At the same time, they post about their lives on social media and receive comments and likes from all over Japan, sometimes from the entire world. What these social media profiles seem to suggest, or at least what migrants want followers to see, is that living and working in rural areas today does not lead to isolation and disconnectedness. On the contrary: it can lead to close local connections while at the same time virtual interactions allow migrants to cultivate the bonds with those left behind and maintain their social networks even beyond the place they live in.

Municipal and prefectural authorities also use official websites and social media to promote the life in the countryside. They aim to appeal to urban dwellers in pursuit of newcomers to rural areas. Local authorities tend to emphasize that rural environments offer rich and new possibilities for interactions with locals. However, finding a job or starting a new business can be a daunting task for newcomers who cannot count on their social safety net. Therefore, municipalities and prefectures provide measures to support work and occupation for migrants. These are at the heart of their rural revitalization strategies.

Recently, I observed something interesting on Nagasaki Prefecture’s website for prospective migrants, Nagasaki ijū-nabi. To the many pages full of support schemes and facilities, the prefecture added a link to a new section advertising remote work around September 2021. On this new website, the prefecture promotes events about remote working facilities and provides a list of several local initiatives and start-ups that support connectivity and remote work. My impression is that Nagasaki aims to expand the opportunities and the use of telework in many professions of the tertiary sector in order to attract people who want to leave Tokyo during the pandemic [2].

The message on Nagasaki prefecture’s website is simple: the prefecture provides in-migrants with all that is necessary to stay fully digitally connected and to be able to work remotely after migration. This way, they can have a fulfilling professional life while enjoying Nagasaki’s rich natural and cultural environments. Moreover, they can maintain the connections with the metropolis, while living “a better life” in the countryside with people who share their lifestyle.

In conclusion, exploring how migrants and local authorities showcase rural life in the digital space can help us to understand multiple layers of connectedness between rural and urban areas. Nowadays in Japan, the possibility for connections and social networks appears to be key to realize a good life in the countryside. Real world interactions are what many migrants aim for, while digital connections are what they bring to rural areas. I would say that the access to digital networks enables the sustainment of existing social and professional networks and the creation of new ones. Digital networks and remote work make rural lives possible for many migrants. One fundamental aspect of new rural lifestyles in contemporary Japan is social connections, both physical and digital.

References

[1]
Klien, S. (2020). Urban Migrants in Rural Japan: Between Agency and Anomie in a Post-Growth Society. Suny Press.

[2]
Ueda, M. (2020, 8 July). Urban exodus in cards as people find freedom in teleworking. The Asahi Shinbun. https://www.asahi.com/ajw/articles/13485555