by Cornelia Reiher

Many urban-rural migrants in Japan relocate to the countryside because they are looking for a community and meaningful social relations. They contrast the anonymous urban space with more closely-knit social ties in the countryside. However, rural life often includes unexpected loneliness. Newcomers’ well-being matters to rural municipalities, because local governments try to attract new residents in order to fight depopulation and rural decline. If, however, migrants feel lonely and leave, they cannot contribute to rural revitalization, local governments might receive less subsidies in the future and population decline continues. To create spaces, where newcomers can build community, sharehouses became quite popular among urban migrants in the countryside. They are places where community is negotiated between urban and rural residents.

In my interviews with urban migrants in rural Kyūshū, newcomers remembered their urban lives as mainly commuting back and forth between their work and their small apartments in buildings where they knew no one. Among other reasons, they mentioned a longing for meaningful social relationships as a reason to relocate to the countryside. However, urbanites often move to rural areas based on idealized notions of community, and once they start their new lives, some felt lonely, judged or excluded. This is especially true for single women over the age of thirty. My research participants in this age group reported that they were either criticized for being single or confronted with attempts to set them up with the sons of their neighbors. Urban migrants who had come to rural Japan through the Chiiki Okoshi Kyoryokutai Program (COKT) often felt unaccepted, isolated or monitored. They often feel obliged to justify their funding to the municipality and its residents or stressed by their high visibility in everyday life and the often too close connections with neighbors. And most COKT members are very busy and have little opportunity to socialize outside of work (with each other or with locals) (Reiher 2025).

The Covid-19 pandemic made things worse. Despite the initial low infection numbers in most rural communities, social and community life changed greatly. Although the pandemic has led to a positive reassessment of the countryside and an increase in urban-rural migration, opportunities for urban newcomers to meet people were limited as local festivals and events were cancelled. Voluntary social distancing remained the norm until 2023. (Reiher 2024). Many migrants who moved to rural areas during the pandemic reported that they had little social contact at first and suffered more than others from the migration barrier (ijū no kabe) after the pandemic, as locals had no opportunity to get to know them. In some cases, this led to migrants only socializing with other migrants and parallel societies emerging, while in other cases, migrants who suffered from loneliness, isolation, or exclusion moved away again after a short time. Moving into a sharehouse was a solution for others.

According to Caitlin Meagher (2020), a sharehouse boom in urban Japan began around 2007. However, in rural Japan, sharehouses are still rare. But with the increase of urban-rural migrants, their numbers have risen in the past decade. Especially in rural areas where the ‘traditional Japanese home’ and conservative family values are still strong, living with non-kin is perceived as “unusual” if not strange or even subversive by some local residents. Sharehouse residents I met stressed that they did not enjoy living by themselves and were explicitly looking for sharehouses when relocating to the countryside. Especially during the COVID-19 pandemic when it was difficult to meet other people, they could make new friends in the sharehouse and did not feel lonely. Many moved into sharehouses in the countryside after living alone for a long time and realized that living with others made their life richer. Others were scared when living alone in old detached houses in the countryside and all enjoyed shared meals and sharing food.

However, the idea of unmarried and non-kin people of different sexes living together under one roof, did not meet with approval of all locals in my field sites. Older people in particular had difficulty understanding such a lifestyle. This shows that sharehouses remain primarily an urban phenomenon. At the same time, the aging local community needs newcomers to sustain communal infrastructure and is willing to cooperate and engage with sharehouse residents and their alternative lifestyle. In this sense, sharehouses in rural Japan are places where newcomers and locals negotiate ideas of community, although newcomers’ ideas of shared living differ from the concept of “living-together” in mainstream rural society. The owners and residents of sharehouses imagine community in a new way, overcoming kinship-based notions of family and community. At the same time, they reach out to the locals and invite them to experience their way of living together. In addition, sharehouses in rural areas are places where urban migrants can live in the context of increasingly scarce housing. Sharehouses become transitional spaces for urban migrants, offering short-term stays to test rural life, housing for those facing loneliness and hubs for newcomers and locals to connect. Thus, sharehouses can serve as catalysts for change in rural areas, inspire migration and help alleviate social isolation.

References:

Meagher, Caitlin (2020), Inside a Japanese sharehouse: dreams and realities, London and New York: Routledge.

Reiher, Cornelia (ed.), 2024. Lived experiences of crisis in rural Japan: An anthology on the transformation of communities and migration during the COVID-19 pandemic, Berlin: CrossAsia Open Access Repository. https://doi.org/10.48796/20241202-000

Reiher, Cornelia (2025), “(In)visible newcomers: Foreign workers and internal urban-rural migrants in Japan’s countryside,” Journal of Rural Studies 114, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jrurstud.2025.103561

by Cornelia Reiher

As rural communities in Japan face socioeconomic and demographic challenges, Japan’s central and local governments have increasingly turned to culture-based strategies for revitalization, including the recruitment of urban creatives. They offer artists atelier spaces, financial support and opportunities to engage with rural life to promote regional economies and especially tourism. The Japanese government has allocated large sums of money to subsidize art festivals, galleries and artist-in-residence programs throughout rural Japan (Tagore 2024).

In 2004, the UNESCO Creative Cities Network (UCCN) was created to promote cooperation with and among cities that have identified creativity as a strategic factor for sustainable urban development (UNESCO 2025). In response to this UNESCO initiative, Japan’s Cultural Agency created the bunka geijutsu sōzō toshi suishin jigyō (Arts and Culture Creative City Promotion Project) and since 2010 provides subsidies to local governments to “support […] initiatives in which local authorities, civic groups […] and local private companies work together to solve regional problems by harnessing the creativity of culture and the arts in a range of areas such as regional development, tourism and industrial development […]” (Bunkachō 2010). In 2013, the Creative City Network of Japan (CCNJ) was established as a platform to promote cooperation and exchange among creative cities in Japan and in the world. Municipalities could apply for grants and become members of this network.

A-Town, a small town in the mountains of Kyushu (population 19,686), made art a pillar of its revitalization strategy and applied for funding from the Cultural Agency and for registration as a member of the Creative City Network of Japan. To retain and attract new talent to his town, the mayor at the time, promoted the town as Creative City and founded an artist-in-residence program and a co-working space to make the city a magnet for urban creatives. For the artist-in-residence program, a vacant school building was renovated with the subsidies from the Cultural Agency and converted into studio space that artists could use free of charge. Due to these measures, A-Town became very attractive for artisans and artists during the past decade.

A-Town’s art-based revitalization strategy goes hand in hand with the preservation of architectural heritage and the promotion of urban-rural migration. In order to provide artists and craftspeople with work and living spaces, the mayor offered them abandoned buildings designated as cultural assets, which were renovated with the help of government grants. Thus, revitalization through art and culture also became a means of reusing vacant buildings (akiya) (Platz 2024). To give artists the opportunity to earn a living, the local government strategically used the Chiiki Okoshi Kyōryokutai program (COKT) to pay invited artists a salary for three years (Reiher 2025).

One of the artists who relocated to A-Town is Shigeru. He was employed by COKT as part of A-Town’s artist-in-residence program. Currently, he divides his time between A-Town and Tokyo. Since finishing the program, he has been living and working in a house he found with the help of the former mayor. Shigeru feels a strong connection to the area and loves the nature which increases his well-being, but feels excluded from the local community. He uses local materials, studies the history of A-Town, and draws inspiration from it. Shigeru is involved in the local community in various ways. However, he feels that artists from outside of A-Town are not welcome in the community, because the locals do not understand their way of life. For this reason, Shigeru mostly spends time with other artists who have moved to A-Town. Although he acknowledges the contribution of newcomer artists to the town, particularly that their studios, workshops, and exhibitions attract other artists and tourists, he also points to a divide between the newcomers and the locals. Therefore, he is rather pessimistic about the local government’s Creative City project and his own impact on the revitalization of A-Town.

In the past decades, art projects and artist-in-residence programs were given greater consideration by local and central governments in their fight against depopulation and aging in rural Japan. The support programs prepared the ground for the subsequent influx of newcomers to these rural areas, attracting younger and more diverse people. Nevertheless, the relationship with the local community is crucial to the success of these initiatives, but residents are not necessarily open to newcomer artists. Local governments and other stakeholders initiating arts-based revitalization should enhance their efforts to explain these initiatives and to involve residents in decision-making processes, art projects and the benefits of the arts. Without community support, art-based revitalization projects may not be very sustainable, benefit only a few stakeholders, and even cause inconvenience to locals due to large numbers of tourists.

References:

Bunkachō (2010), Bunka geijutsu sōzō toshi suishin jigyō https://www.bunka.go.jp/seisaku/bunka_gyosei/chiho/creative_city/suishinjigyo/

Platz, Annemone (2024), “From social issue to art site and beyond – reassessing rural akiya kominka”, Contemporary Japan 36, 1, pp. 41-56.

Reiher, Cornelia (2025), “(In)visible newcomers: Foreign workers and internal urban-rural migrants in Japan’s countryside,” Journal of Rural Studies 114, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jrurstud.2025.103561

Tagore, Eimi (2024), Art festivals in Japan: Fueling revitalization, tourism, and self-censorship, Contemporary Japan 36, 1, pp. 7-19

UNESCO (2025), Creative Cities Network, https://www.unesco.org/en/creative-cities  

by Cornelia Reiher

On the way to Taketa, the train winds through thickets of bamboo on either side of the tracks. As it passes through valleys, bamboo forests, mountains, and tunnels, branches whip against the train’s windows. It becomes clear even on the journey why this small town in the mountains of Kyushu, Japan’s southernmost main island, bears the name “Bamboo Field.” Bamboo is omnipresent in Taketa, whether in nature, as a building material, or at the annual bamboo lantern festival. Bamboo is traditionally a material and motif used in arts and crafts throughout Japan, but Oita Prefecture, where Taketa is located, is particularly well known for its high-quality bamboo work.

Hajime Nakatomi, a bamboo artist born in Osaka in 1974, has lived in Taketa since 2012. I visited his studio in a former school to meet him. In the early 2000s, Taketa’s city administration began inviting artists and craftspeople specifically to revitalize the old castle town, whose population was ageing and shrinking. To create studio space, the vacant school, which now houses Nakatomi’s studio, was renovated. The mayor at the time offered Nakatomi a studio and a place to live in the hope that his fame would attract other artists and craftsmen. The plan worked, as the artist is renowned in the small yet international bamboo community for the contemporary aesthetic of his creations, which he exhibits worldwide.

Nakatomi’s studio, located in the school’s former music room, is quiet, with only the regular sound of a grinding machine to be heard. Nothing suggests that objects are being created here for the international art market. Two assistants split bamboo and cut strips of various lengths. Much of this work is carried out on the floor. In an adjoining room are bamboo trunks several meters long. Tools are lined up on a shelf, and individual parts for projects are carefully packed and numbered. Some of the more delicate sculptures that Nakatomi sells all over the world are displayed on tables. While many craftsmen make everyday objects from bamboo, Hajime Nakatomi bends and weaves dyed bamboo into abstract shapes. Interwoven rings form coral-like shapes, while others resemble strands of DNA. It seems as if there is nothing Nakatomi cannot do with bamboo. He finds inspiration in nature and everyday life. For example, the “Frill” series, which traces the wind blowing through clothing, was created to celebrate the birth of his daughter.

Hajime Nakatomi’s fascination with nature and bamboo is evident as he presents his work and demonstrates the steps involved in the crafting process. Bamboo craftsmanship exemplifies the interconnection between humans and nature. Of the more than 500 species of bamboo in Japan, only about ten are suitable for his work, Nakatomi explained. He has trunks delivered from northern Kyushu but also manages a bamboo grove in Taketa, where he cuts the trees, he selects for his projects. He relies on patience to find suitable trees.  The bamboo must be three to four years old. If it is older, the rings between the individual sections become too hard. The trees should grow on an eastern slope so they aren’t burned by the sun. After felling the bamboo, the trunks must be left to dry for two weeks and then washed so the oil can escape from the wood. Then, the bark is removed, changing the bamboo’s color from green to light brown. A sweet scent is created during this process, filling Nakatomi’s studio.

Hajime Nakatomi demonstrates how to rethink traditional Japanese handicrafts to preserve them, giving bamboo works a contemporary aesthetic. He learned traditional craft techniques at the Ōita Prefecture Bamboo Craft Training Center and as an assistant to bamboo master Shoryu Honda. Accordingly, Nakatomi devotes considerable time to each step of the process. Each step is always carried out in the same sequence to achieve perfection. He wants to create pieces that aren’t immediately recognizable as bamboo to surprise his audience. Only upon closer inspection should viewers penetrate the work more deeply and be enchanted. Thus, bamboo becomes a medium of silent magic that transcends cultural boundaries and explains Hajime Nakatomi’s international success.

by Axel Eriksson

“I’m not in Kansas anymore,” goes the expression from The Wizard of Oz, uttered when Dorothy finds herself beyond what once seemed normal. In the back seat of a car winding through the roads of south-eastern Honshu, I thought the same as we headed out to collect bamboo shoots at a cabin with two of my informants. Next to me sat a Japanese digital nomad, almost leaning over the front seat to chat in Japanese with the driver, who had her seat belt on, while her three-year-old child, unbuckled, sat beside her. Any romantic image of a safe Japan from TikTok faltered during this experience. Driving in Japan is intense, not exactly aggressive, but certainly energetic, though still conducted with a tone of respect. As they chatted, I struggled to follow the conversation with my limited Japanese, so I switched on my newly downloaded AI translator app for a test run: “That’s what capitalism does, isn’t it?” the driver said, to which the digital nomad hummed in agreement. The future of Japan seems to be on everyone’s lips here in the countryside.

The reason I was sitting in this car is my search for foreign digital nomads across rural Japan. Not long ago, Japan—like many other countries—caught the fever to attract those who use remote work to travel for extended periods. Yet freelance workers, business owners and others have long been able to detach themselves from a fixed home in favour of a more mobile lifestyle. What this new life could be was already described as early as 1997, when Tsugio Makimoto and David Manners coined the term in their book Digital Nomad, which, in the late-1990s spirit of Fukuyama’s book The End of History, envisioned a bright economic future shaped by mobility—a hopeful era in which those on the “right side of history” could escape the constraints of capitalist life. Now, nearly 25–30 years later, while the digital nomad visa may be the most widely known policy tool, many other schemes have emerged to support small-scale entrepreneurs in making digital nomadism viable—particularly in rural Japan. Digital nomads carry an aura of new hope, especially in connecting rural Japan to the wider world.

Trying to find any digital nomads in the Japanese countryside, however, felt almost like researching dead ends. Anyone who has done fieldwork knows that the world rarely unfolds as planned—each encounter turns out to be disturbingly different in ways that seem contradictory or nonsensical at the time. The timing seemed ideal: the yen is weak and many people now enjoy endless flexibility to travel while working remotely. Before starting my fieldwork, I had believed that digital nomads would be wandering freely across Japan. Yet when I arrived in the countryside, they were only a few. “Have you gone to Fukuoka?” countless people asked me rhetorically, as if already knowing the answer. “You’ll find what you’re looking for there.” Indeed, Tokyo, Osaka and Fukuoka are teeming with digital nomads—just like any other type of tourist. Outside these areas, they are far harder to come by. Even Sapporo in the north, where I had hoped to begin my journey into rural Japan, felt empty outside the season I had just missed. Cities accommodating tourists seem to swallow digital nomads into the same gravitational pull. Their mobility often mirrors that of tourists, arriving with the seasons—Hokkaido in winter, Tokyo in spring for the cherry blossoms.

Digital nomads do occasionally venture beyond the classic tourist cities—not by chance, but thanks to the intensive efforts of co-working spaces. My search led me to rural cities and towns across Japan which, at first glance, seemed no different from small places in Sweden, Portugal or Belgium, where I have lived before, but after some days walking in them it become apparent to me that they are slowly closing down. My realization of the need for revitalization did not come until I arrived in south-eastern Honshu, where I truly grasped the scale of Japan’s depopulation crisis. What began as “Ah, they’ll open later,” soon turned into the quiet realization—peering through shuttered blinds—that “Oh, they’re never going to open again.” In response, digital nomads have become a key tool for connection. A project leader for one such initiative admitted just how few people were coming: “We have to do something. Otherwise, in sixty years, there’ll be no one left on this island.” Digital nomadism is a trend that, if nurtured, could offer rural areas a way to reconnect. It is not the digital nomads that I follow, but connections between these places that provides merits for research.

As I visit these rural places that trying to attract digital nomads, it is hard to miss the willingness to meet new people and forge connections between temporary visitors such as digital nomads and local residents. On the winding roads of south-eastern Honshu, I find myself beginning to understand what digital nomads might mean for these areas. To most people I met in the countryside, I appear to be one myself. And not unlike other digital nomads, I have packed my belongings into a few cardboard boxes and left to begin another life. In that sense, I have become part of rural revitalization—linked to everywhere else through the presence of nomads. As I look out across the rice paddies in an otherwise densely forested valley, I know I need to return, to connect again with rural Japan. And I must ask myself: what can I, as a ‘digital nomad researcher’, do to help sustain life in these places?

Axel Eriksson is a postdoctoral researcher from Sweden who recently graduated at Mid Sweden University. He was rewarded a JSPS short–term postdoctoral scholarship to be in Hokkaido University in Sapporo conducting ethnographic research across Japan to understand how digital nomads connects to rural Japan. His research focuses on how groups meet and renegotiate their livelihoods, especially through tourism and new foreigner residents.

by Cornelia Reiher

Funding for our project ended in October 2024. Please find below a summary of the project report submitted to the German Research Foundation (DFG) and a link to the report itself. I would like to thank everyone who was involved and supported our project.

Summary of DFG-funded research project “Urban-rural migration and rural revitalization in Japan”

To counter population decline and labor shortages in rural Japan, central and local governments have launched programs aimed at revitalizing rural areas by attracting new residents to live and work in the countryside. Although the COVID-19 pandemic has changed the perception of rural life and led to an increase in urban-rural migration, the total number of migrants remains small and is unevenly distributed across Japan. Peripheral areas receive fewer newcomers than regions close to cities. This research project compared urban-rural migration in four municipalities in Kyūshū, Japan’s southernmost main island, to find out how urban-rural migration affects rural revitalization. Although all municipalities offer a wide range of quite similar financial incentives and other support programs aimed at encouraging migration, in none of them were numbers of in-migrants high enough to reverse the overall demographic decline. By combining ethnographic research with policy analysis, the research team found that the way central and local governments conceptualize urban-rural migration influences migrants’ self-perceptions and determines their eligibility for support. These classifications are often based on simplistic criteria, such as a migrant’s place of origin, and overlook the complexity of individual migration experiences. We challenge these traditional categories that classify migrants simply according to their place of origin or view migration as settlement by suggesting a more nuanced understanding of urban-rural migration that includes a broader concept of migration embracing more flexible and temporary mobilities. This perspective acknowledges the fluidity of contemporary migration patterns as in each of the four communities, both short-term and long-term urban-rural migrants have made significant contributions. They have started their own businesses, enhancing the appeal of their new hometowns for both locals and tourists, while also generating employment. Beyond their economic impact, these migrants are influencing local culture by introducing new and often mobile lifestyles and new notions of community. Although these changes may be small in quantitative terms, they are notable in terms of the qualitative transformation they bring to rural areas.

by Johanna Mayr

When I was thinking about the topic of my Master’s thesis, I had a dream that my research could have a positive impact on the world. I wanted to learn more about the reality of people’s lives and make these findings accessible to a wider audience so that they could read and become aware of them. As a woman, I have thought about motherhood before and wondered what impact it would have on my life. However, from pregnancy to child rearing, from part-time work to parental leave, and from marriage to relationships, many aspects of family life were only ever a topic I heard about without thinking about. So, the desire arose to help close this knowledge gap, not just for me, but for others pondering similar issues.

From mid-August to mid-September 2023, I traveled to the Aso region in Kumamoto. The Aso region is a rural area consisting of a few municipalities clustered around a caldera with an active volcano in the center. It is famous for its wide and flowing grasslands and is popular with cyclists and golfers, but also with researchers like me. I am not the first person from the Department of Japanese Studies at the University of Vienna to make this region the focus of my work. I was therefore fortunate to have a support network of colleagues, researchers and other contacts in and around the region that I could rely on and turn to. After twenty-one interviews with mothers in Aso, I felt that my knowledge gap had significantly filled with new insights and realizations. We talked about the many responsibilities and roles that women carry and fulfill in their daily lives, from their work (both paid and unpaid, both inside and outside the home) to their friendships and hobbies. Although I cannot provide full results at this stage, as my analysis is still ongoing, I would like to mention some interesting points that have already come to my attention:

Ms. Fujita (all names have been changed to protect interviewee anonymity), for example, talked a lot about the future and not just her present, which focused on her children, her husband, and her work as a restaurant owner. She wants to create as many memories as possible with her family before her children are grown and off to school or work and before her parents and mother-in-law need her help. The responsibility of raising her children can be hard, but planning small outings with them is also a source of joy and hope. She combines this hope with the ability to cope with future challenges and tough times.

This balance between the joy of having a family and the demanding responsibilities that limit one’s time and choices is described in one way or another by almost all the mothers I spoke to. Mrs. Chiba described it very aptly in the context of her work as a kindergarten teacher: “If I didn’t have a job, I wouldn’t be happy, and if I didn’t have a family, and just this job, I think it would probably have been hard. Yes. I feel like inside of me my work is my ikigai [one’s purpose in life or reason to live], and my family is my shiawase [happiness].” However, she also feels controlled by her work, childcare and her household duties. So much so that in her daily life she feels like she does not have the leeway to think much about more abstract concepts like hope, time, freedom and the future. At the same time, she sees herself as someone living freely, since she chose this life for herself.

Another point that was frequently raised was the fact that you have to make compromises in certain areas of your life in order to prioritize others, especially your family and particularly your children. Ms. Fujita has put her hobbies on hold for the time being until she regains more time and freedom as her children become more independent. Ms. Daichi describes that she has actively decided against club activities as a teacher, although this was her actual goal, for which she became a teacher while her children were still small. She also compromises for the sake of her husband, as he is able to teach club activities, partly because Mrs. Daichi prioritizes childcare duties.

These stories of mothers from Aso show that our lives are multi-faceted. Perhaps we are all simply balancing our joys and hardships, trying to outweigh the negatives with the positives and shifting our priorities as our environment and situation allows. Whatever the case, I believe that learning about other people’s experiences is invaluable and that it is important to share these insights. One thing I know for sure is that my research has helped at least one person, myself. And I hope it might be helpful or at least interesting to others, perhaps even to someone reading this blog post.

And if there is one piece of advice I could give to future field research beginners: It’s always okay to ask! I did my best to ask whenever, wherever and whoever. Of course, I was turned down a few times, but in the vast majority of cases I was kindly supported, informed and helped. I couldn’t be more grateful!

Johanna F. Mayr is currently studying for an MA in Japanese Studies and an MA in German as a Second and Foreign Language at the University of Vienna. Her research focuses on topics related to gender, identity and well-being.

by Arne Bartzsch

In my last blog post, I introduced Minakami, a small onsen town in Gunma Prefecture that, like so many rural towns in Japan, is struggling with various structural problems. In order to revitalize the town’s main touristic area, Minakami Onsen or Yubara, various measures and projects of urban planning were proposed in the Minakami’s 2020 master plan and other plans. Particularly interesting is a current project that relies on the collaboration between of business (san), administration (kan), academia (gaku) and finance (kin), which I will introduce in this article.

At the beginning, two measures were taken to solve the prominent problem of abandoned houses and properties in Minakami Onsen. First, a cleanup campaign was conducted at several deserted sites, bringing lightness to the townscape and new spatial prospects. And second, for smaller vacant commercial or residential buildings, an executive committee was established as an intermediary between owners and potential users. That measure provided facilities for some new businesses in or near the district. The next step was about improving public space to create a more appealing and easy-to-walk touristic area. Under the concept of “5 public places” (itsutsu no hiroba), three places in Yubara and one each at the train station and the michi no eki were selected to help connecting the onsen-gai and the Tone River areas. The keyword of “walkability” emphasizes ease of access and leisure. This project is supported by special funding by Gunma Prefecture. The actual joint development project of the four partners, however, does not focus on the entire Minakami Onsen area, but on a central site in Yubara in the area of the former Hotel Ichiyo-Tei. Here, a public square is planned, with a park linking the onsen-gai with the riverbank and an open area for markets, events and festivals (matsuri). New buildings on the base of remaining structures (sustainable use of „grey energy“) will house a hotel as well as touristic and public facilities. However, the final design of this site has not yet been decided but is depending on the search for suitable operators and tenants and on remaining questions about the urban layout. For example, a new public onsen bathhouse is in consideration, and also the scale of space for parking lots is still an issue of discussion.

The project is a collaboration of “san-kan-gaku-kin” (business, administration, academia and finance) and the project design reflects the specific roles and motives of the four partners involved. The business side (san) is represented by The Open House Group, an expanding real estate investor, active in urban development. Since the company’s roots are in Gunma Prefecture, interest in investing in Minakami is strong. The company has acquired the former hotel Ichiyo-Tei – beside several other real estate in the community, including a ski-resort and plots of land for luxury accommodations. The commitment of Open House proofs that Minakami is an attractive place for investment. And it reflects a general trend of real estate investment in Japan to flee the heated marked in Tokyo and other major cities, and to look for profitable projects in the countryside.

The municipality of Minakami represents the administration (kan). It has chosen the former Ichiyo-Tei as the project’s main site because of its central location and the relevance for strategic communal development, but also because of certain necessities. The site comprises several large buildings and has a long history under the former name “Higaki Hotel”. In 2019, the hotel ceased operations. Due to debts and irregularities on the part of the previous owner, the municipality was left to struggle with the desolate site and considerable financial burdens. In the search for redevelopment opportunities and suitable investors, the Open House Group came onto the scene. This cooperation, and the concentration of the project’s scope to this central area, were strategic moves by the municipality, which had (and still has) to manage its limited resources.

Financial support came from the Gunma Bank which represents the finance sector (kin). The bank’s support is important for the municipality which bears the main burden of demolition, renovation and rebuilding of the hotel’s facilities. The building site itself, however, was acquired by the Open House Group who will be its lessor. This pattern of separate ownership of a real estate’s site and the objects built on it is quite common in Japan. In any case, the realization of this project goes along with substantial investment backup, and with considerable risk as well.

To link this business development with a sound and sustainable local development, a proper framework of urban design and planning is inevitable. For this purpose, important expertise could be secured from the Urban Design Laboratory of the Department of Urban Engineering of Tokyo University which represents academia (gaku) in this project. Sponsored by the Open House Group, the Urban Design Laboratory is supporting the municipality’s planning department with know-how, project design, organization and other activities. The Tokyo University, on the other hand, benefits from interesting opportunities for fieldwork education of its students, and from budget enhancement through third-party funding. The Urban Design Laboratory’s main tasks are to coordinate the central project at the former Ichiyo-Tei with comprehensive local development strategies, and to design a suitable framework for citizens’ participation, including facilitating the concurrent process. While seminar groups conduct on-site research of local histories, the Urban Design Laboratory is also taking part in the formal planning process. It discusses ideas and designs in public workshops, publishes information via various media, and initiates further dialog.

The former Ichiyo-Tei has become the main location for activities of the Tokyo University student group, especially the abandoned accommodation buildings for employees of the former hotel, the „Higaki-dorm.“ The students, who frequently come from Tokyo for the project, have cleaned the desolate site and continue to provisionally renovate the buildings. They are joined by motivated citizens. While being accommodated privately, they can experience local life and develop cordial and trustful relationships. In the autumn of 2022, a market (Marché) was organized by the Tokyo University students at the Higaki-dorm. This form of event with flea-market, food-stands, project workshops and information tables are fashionable in present-day Japan, and it became quite a success in Yubara, too. It was repeated in 2023 and 2024 and expanded to additional sites. Machizukuri events like this attract a large number of visitors and serve as multipliers for information about the project, and as measures for confidence-building.

Arne Bartzsch graduated as M.A. of Information Science and Japanese Studies from Freie Universität Berlin. He is researching topics of cultural information and local development. In Japan, he has taken part in various machizukuri activities. Knowledge transfer between Germany and South Korea about re-unification and transformation was another long-term project.

by Ian Harano Grey

Breaths of thick damp air entered my lungs as I frantically dragged my suitcase through the Narita Airport. This is how I knew I was back in Japan. I tried to follow a group of other random terrified “English teaching assistants” who came to Japan with the JET Program as we were all ushered like cattle into big buses that would take us to Shinjuku. The last time I was in Tokyo, I completely fell in love with the massive electric titan that it is, but was unfortunately ripped away due to the COVID-19 pandemic. But this time I was only there for a short (and strict) 72 hours before being shipped off to a city named Kumamoto in the middle of the Island of Kyushu. The only thing I managed to learn about the area before being sent there was that their mascot “Kumamon” is beloved and that the regional delicacy was horse meat (much to the dismay of my horse loving grandmother).

When I got off the plane, I entered the small box that they are calling the airport. I was dragged by a small group of foreign people in shorts and two Japanese officials in formal business wear that were all shaking signs at me. They hurriedly got my LINE account while taking a forced group photo. After this was all acquired, they quickly scuttled off to their respective airconditioned cars and I was placed with my “helper” who was supposed to help me settle in my new apartment. Walking to her car, the true horror of the Kumamoto heat began to dawn on me. I wore a suit out of peer pressure from other anxious newcomers even though the regional advisor told me explicitly to wear clothing that was “good for hot weather”. As I dripped buckets into the car of my helper, she still treated me with efficiency and kindness. While trying to pretend I was fine between suppressing the gasps of air and wiping off my forehead sweat, she finally says “It is hot here, isn’t it? That’s why we call it hi no kuni. The Land of fire!”  We both laughed, but I looked out of the window onto the piercing neon green rice fields, volcanos, and mountains that made the bowl of soup that is Kumamoto. I couldn’t help but think “What the hell am I doing here?”

As I settled into the job, the magic of living in Japan wore off, and I entered the complaining phase. Kumamoto is not only extremely hot in the summer, but bone chillingly cold in the winters. Most of my coworkers were difficult to communicate with while working insane amounts of overtime. I had no idea how to teach hundreds of kids on my own, and I had to push down my queer identity to fit in with the strong binary gendered expectations of Japanese society. Anytime there was talk of needing to go to a bigger city to get something done or the transit was messed up, the teachers all laughed and said: “Jā, inaka desu ne”, meaning: “Well that’s the countryside right?” When discussing the frustrations I had with this confusing city, my coworker stated “Kumamoto is trying its absolute hardest to be cool.” This would end up being the key that opened everything for me. If Kumamoto was trying, I needed to try, too.

With time, Kumamoto bloomed before my eyes. In the countryside, you make your own fun and find your own community. We had crazy parties at the local foreigner bar. I began to look forward to seeing the legion of old women who ran my closest konbini, always asking if I am dating and or observing my weight gain/ loss. The best weekends were bike rides along the rice fields and drinking cheap 7-Eleven wine in the park. I found myself saying “Count me in!” to take pottery lessons in a stranger’s backyard. Instead of being intimidated by horse meat, everyone eventually fought over the last piece at a group

dinner. I joined university students practicing their acapella singing routine at night by the river. The burst of glee I let out when the shy student in my class got 2nd in the relay at the sports festival shocked me. A sweet elderly woman I met at a conference insisted on making me a buffet in exchange for helping her grandson practice his English for High School Exams. So many simple but special moments invited me into this lovely community in a random city across the world. Often in big metropolises it can be incredibly isolating and discouragingly lonely because you don’t have a community. However, in Kumamoto, I enjoyed a community that transcended age, background, and nationality. I learned to open my soul and accept something that transcended my expectations. The heat no longer suffocated me, instead, it was a reminder of life around me.

Ian Harano Grey is a master’s student currently enrolled at Freie Universitaet. They are a Japanese-American from Reno, Nevada who did their undergraduate studies at the University of Nevada, Reno with a focus on History in China and Japan. They had worked in Kumamoto as an “Assistant Language Teacher” (ALT) through the JET program before shifting perspectives to Global East Asian Studies in Berlin.

by Cornelia Reiher

When newcomers move to the countryside, they need a place to live. Although there are many abandoned properties in rural Japan, they often struggle to find land and houses to buy or rent (Lollini 2024). This may come as a surprise, as even international media outlets have picked up on the results of the Japanese Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communication’s 2023 Housing and Land Survey, which found that 9 million or 13.8% of all houses in Japan were vacant (Lau and Maruyama 2024; Sōmushō 2024). The problem of house abandonment has attracted increasing media attention in recent years and is not only a problem of rural areas, but also affects many cities. However, the proportion of the nine million houses that are vacant in Japan is high in rural areas and highest in Wakayama, Tokushima and Yamanashi prefectures (Jiji 2024).

But why is it so difficult for newcomers to find a new home when rural Japan is full of abandoned houses? In many cases, the homes of elderly people who live alone are left empty when they die or move into nursing facilities (Jiji 2024). Since the economic value of old or “second-hand” houses is low, heirs often do not want to take over inherited houses. They are not required to register inherited property titles in their own names, so the owners of abandoned houses are often unknown (Nozawa 2022), or the property is divided among a growing number of people, making it difficult for local authorities to track them all down to do something with the property and collect property taxes (Lollini 2024). But even if the owners are known, they may decide to simply leave the house empty for economic reasons. The cost of demolition, for instance, is high and a lot without a house is subject to much higher property taxes. Thus, owners would rather leave the house vacant than demolish it (Platz 2024). There are also private and cultural reasons for holding on to vacant properties. Some owners use the houses for storage, as a second home, or for sentimental reasons. Furthermore, since the house is also a place of ancestor worship in Japan, the owners have a duty to take care of it.

Despite these difficulties, newcomers to rural Japan do find places to live. The Act on Special Measures Concerning Vacant Houses promotes reuse of abandoned houses, and encouraged local governments to create databases of vacant houses (akiya bank). Through these databases, local governments provide information on available housing. The national government is also obligated to financially support the administrative efforts of local governments on issues covered by this law (Umeda 2014). As a result, most Japanese municipalities have established their own akiya bank. In some cases, akiya banks provide information not only about available housing, but also about local history, culture, and customs. Local governments often cooperate with real estate companies or NPOs, and hire staff through chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai (COKT; English: Community building support staff program) to run akiya banks (Hatayama 2016). In addition, local governments across Japan have developed a variety of programs to support housing for urban-rural migrants. Some offer subsidies to convert akiya into guesthouses or to help people rent apartments by reducing the rent or paying their moving expenses, while others offer to reduce property taxes or pay a percentage of the interest on loans (Reiher 2020).

Despite these efforts, urban-rural migrants often find housing through word of mouth rather than through akiya banks (Pollacco 2023; Lollini 2024). Therefore, local authorities and other actors involved in supporting urban-rural migrants recommend that they visit places they are interested in and build relationships of trust before moving. Migrants with previous connections to the place through kinship or stays there for work or vacation purposes might have an advantage when looking for housing. However, many organizations also try to act as intermediaries to match migrants with no previous ties to their municipalities with the local community and housing.

References:

Hatayama, N. 2016. “Ijūsha o chiiki to tsunagu no wa dare ka? Chichibu akiya banku ni okeru minkan kigyō to jichitai no renkei.” Nihon toshi shakaigaku nenpō 49: 137–145.

Jiji. 2024. “Number of vacant homes in Japan hits record high of 9 million.” The Japan Times, May 1, 2024. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2024/05/01/japan/japan-vacant-homes-record-high/.

Lau, C., and M. Maruyama. 2024. “Super-aged Japan now has 9 million vacant homes. And that’s a problem.” CNN, May 7, 2024. https://edition.cnn.com/2024/05/07/asia/akiya-homes-problem-japan-intl-hnk/index.html

Lollini, N. 2024. “The right to abandon and the duty to maintain: Addressing the akiya mondai in regional Japan.” Electronic Journal of Contemporary Japanese Studies 24 (2): http://www.japanesestudies.org.uk/ejcjs/vol24/iss2/lollini.html.

Nozawa, C. 2022. “Land and homes and the Japanese: The issue of vacant houses and land with unknown owners today: What progress with preparations for closing houses?” Japan Foreign Policy Forum. https://www.japanpolicyforum.jp/society/pt2022012616580811841.html.

Platz, A. 2024. “From social issue to art site and beyond: Reassessing rural akiya kominkan.” Contemporary Japan 36 (1): 41–56.

Pollacco, L. 2023. “Renting akiya: A backdoor into Japan’s abandoned homes.” The Japan Times, November 18, 2023. https://www.japantimes.co.jp/life/2023/11/18/lifestyle/akiya-renting-kochi/?utm_medium=email&utm_source=pianoex&utm_campaign=64922372.

Reiher, C., 2020. “Embracing the periphery: Urbanites’ motivations to relocate to rural Japan.” In Japan’s New ruralities: Coping with decline in the periphery, edited by W. Manzenreiter, R. Lützeler, and S. Polak-Rottmann, 230–244. London: Routledge.

Sōmushō. 2024. “Reiwa 5 nen jūtaku, tochi tōkei chōsa jūtakusū gaisū shūkei (sokuhō shūkei) kekka.” https://www.stat.go.jp/data/jyutaku/2023/pdf/g_kekka.pdf

Umeda, S. 2014. “Japan: New law and tax measure to promote demolition and reuse of abandoned houses.” Global Legal Monitor.  https://www.loc.gov/item/global-legal-monitor/2014-12-05/japan-new-law-and-tax-measure-to-promote-demolition-and-reuse-of-abandoned-houses/

by Signy Goto-Spletzer

Over the years that I have been researching revitalization in the Aso region in Kumamoto Prefecture one topic seemed to come up in almost every conversation – the efforts to make Aso a UNESCO World Heritage site. While the municipalities of the region have been working hard to get Aso added to the list of World Heritage sites, “surprisingly” – as noted in a blog by Aso City’s Michi no eki– it has not yet received this recognition (MICHINOEKI Aso 2021). I am biased, but anyone who has ever been to Aso must admit that it is a unique place. I still cannot get over the fact that a massive caldera is home to thousands of people. And there is of course the still very active Mount Aso sitting majestically in the middle of the caldera and lots of wonderful hot springs. The Aso region consists of seven municipalities: Aso City, Minamioguni, Oguni, Ubuyama, Takamori, Nishihara and Minamiaso. Only Aso City, Minamiaso and Takamori are located directly in the caldera but the whole region is part of the efforts to become a UNESCO World Heritage site as a volcanic region with a distinct cultural landscape (Kumamoto Prefecture 2020).

The cultural landscape mentioned here refers mainly to the grassland that covers large parts of the region. However, like so many rural areas in Japan, the region is struggling with a shrinking and aging population. For the cultural landscape this means that there are less people using and maintaining the grassland and that the forest has pushed forward reclaiming inch by inch. More than half of the area has already been lost over the last hundred years, and if nothing changes, most of the remaining grassland will disappear in the near future. The grassland of Aso has a long history, possibly dating back to the late-glacial period (Kawano et al. 2012). The protection of the grassland is therefore clearly connected to its significance as a unique ecosystem and the cultural heritage it represents. Being listed as a World Heritage site would offer protection and create new possibilities for financial support and investments. Another reason why countries might be interested in adding their sites to the list is the tourism boost they are likely to receive from the increased attention.

While working on a research project in the Kuma region, I met a researcher who supports Aso City’s efforts to get the Aso region on Japan’s Tentative List. Japan currently has 26 World Heritage sites, with four more sites on its Tentative List (MOFA 2024; Agency of Cultural Affairs n.d.). To be considered for a nomination, the site must first be included on the Tentative List that is prepared by each country. Even if a site gets on the list, it can still be a long way to the nomination. Two of the four sites on Japan’s Tentative List have been added in 1992. Nevertheless, becoming a UNESCO World Heritage site is the only way to secure the future of the grassland, this researcher told me. This would also include a boost in tourism. Tourism is deeply connected to revitalization efforts of rural areas. Because farming cannot sustain the income of the local population, tourism could be a way to stop the decline of Aso’s communities and attract new residents. Even if not so well known internationally, the Aso region has been a famous tourist destination in Japan for a long time. Still, local governments and local groups are struggling to make Aso a better place for tourists, hoping that this will make the region a better place for locals as well.

However, many people I spoke to, including government employees and people who depend on tourism for their livelihoods, were skeptical about the kind of tourism a nomination would bring. What Aso needs, I was told, are tourists who come to spend a whole week there. In other words, sustainable slow tourism. The locals voicing their concerns are not without reason. The examples of other World Heritage sites have shown that the status can come at a cost to nature and local communities. Think of the numerous news stories over the recent years about overtourism. Some places are completely overrun by tourists and need to find strategies to cope or reduce their numbers (Hall 2024). World Heritage sites are right in the middle of this trend. Paradoxically, the World Heritage status that should protect the cultural landscape could be a trigger for enormous stress on the local nature. Tourism needs infrastructure. Not only hotels, but roads, parking spaces, and toilets right up there on the mountain next to the observation deck, a government worker of Aso City explained to me with a troubled face. This means that some parts of the local nature might have to be sacrificed to meet the demands of economic interests. In recent years, semiconductor factories have been built in a town next to the Aso region, raising further questions about water use and environmental protection in the area.

The road to a nomination might still be very long for Aso. However, not only the region has a lot to gain from the status as a World Heritage site, because the cultural landscape is critically linked to the water supply far beyond the Aso area. I am curious to see how the UNESCO project in Aso will continue, what ways the proponents will find to allay the concerns of local communities, and whether being listed as a World Heritage site can really deliver the revitalization so many in the Aso region are hoping for.

References:

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

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

Kawano, Tatsuichiro, Naoko Sasaki, Takayoshi Hayashi, and Hikaru Takahara (2012), “Grassland and Fire History since the Late-Glacial in Northern Part of Aso Caldera, Central Kyusyu, Japan, Inferred from Phytolith and Charcoal Records,” Quaternary International 254 (March):18–27. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.quaint.2010.12.008.

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

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

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

Signy Goto-Spletzer holds a BA and MA in Japanese Studies from the University of Vienna. Her research focuses on the implications of rural revitalization as a business model and the recovery and resilience of remote areas in Kyūshū after disasters.