by Stephan Bogedain

The number of vacant houses in Japan has been increasing nationwide due to a declining population caused by low birth rates. These vacant houses are called akiya and have many negative effects on the living environment of the area and the population living in the neighborhood. They also have an impact on the local economy, as they lead to a decrease in land prices and tax revenues. Many of the vacant houses are not sold because Japanese people prefer not to buy used houses. In addition, many of them are also used as storage space, second homes, or are awaiting renovation (Platz 2024: 43-44).

Located in Saitama Prefecture, Kawagoe is a city bustling with tourists who venture through the alleys to experience the traditional houses reminiscent of Japan’s Edo period. As many as seven million tourists visit Kawagoe each year to experience its unique and beautiful cityscape. However, the majority of these tourists only stay for the day and leave in the evening. The city has been experiencing steady population growth since the 1990s, but it is not free of the problems that akiya (City Population 2022) present. Due to the city’s massive success as a tourist attraction, rents are rising, and as a result, small private businesses are struggling to find a foothold in the area. This leads to these businesses being pushed out of Kawagoe and new ones being unable to open in the city, which negatively affects the residential areas (Seki 2022: 81). Since the main street sees a lot of visitors, it flourishes and is full of souvenir shops. The side streets, on the other hand, are deserted and the shopkeepers there are forced to give up their businesses.

To address these issues, the city has formulated a plan to combat the increase in vacant properties. This includes raising awareness among citizens. The city also states that the owners of the houses are responsible for the proper management of the houses. However, the city will assist the owners if needed. The plan advocates the effective use of the empty spaces as community spaces in an attempt to revitalize the region. The focus of the revitalization is on areas with many elderly residents and vacant houses (Kawagoe City 2018a). According to a study carried out by the local government, the areas with the most vacant houses also have the highest proportion of elderly people over the age of 65 (Kawagoe City 2016: 75). While the city is generally experiencing population growth, it still faces the same problem of an increase in akiya due to an aging population. As part of the counter-measures, the city has started to collect data on vacant houses that their owners want to sell and is collecting them in a so-called vacant house bank (akiya banku). This makes it easy for individuals and organizations interested in buying a house to find and contact the owners (Kawagoe City 2023).

The city has also set up a school to teach how to renovate old vacant houses. Among the participants in this school is a group of people who have formed a company called “80%”. The company’s activities focus on repairing and renovating empty houses so that they can be reused for new businesses, such as coworking spaces and guesthouses, allowing 80% to make a profit by renting out the newly created spaces. The company renovates about one house per year. An example is the renovation of an old tenement that is now a rentable coworking space and café. The city’s 350,000 residents live alongside the many tourists who visit Kawagoe. The renovation projects serve as a way to make the city more livable by creating more businesses primarily for locals, which in turn can attract more tourists, while creating spaces where both worlds can meet and mix (Seki 2022). Their coworking spaces are advertised as having a cozy atmosphere and they offer their services 24 hours a day, 365 days a year (80 %). The company does not receive financial support from the local government for its projects, as it is a for-profit business. However, the city provides soft support to the group by arranging meetings and mediating between them and previous homeowners. Although the members of 80% are aware that they are doing a lot of work for the city, they also value having fun while renovating houses and want to make the city a place that reflects these values. Their sentiment is reflected in the name 80%, which means “creating a better day without working too hard” (Seki 2022: 83).

References:

80% (2024), “Kowākingu” [Coworking], https://80per.net/coworking/ (17.06.2024).

City Population (2022), ,,JAPAN: Saitama”, https://www.citypopulation.de/en/japan/saitama/ (17.06.2024).

Kawagoe City (2016), “Kawagoeshi akiya nado jittaichōsa hōkokusho” [Kawagoe vacant houses survey report], https://www.city.kawagoe.saitama.jp/kurashi/jutaku/akiyataisaku/jittaihoukokusyo.files/h28_jittaityousahoukokusyo.pdf (17.06.2024).

Kawagoe City (2018a), “Kawagoeshi akiya nado taisakukeikaku wo sakutei” [Formulated plan to deal with vacant houses in Kawagoe], https://www.city.kawagoe.saitama.jp/kurashi/jutaku/akiyataisaku/akiyakeikaku.html (17.06.2024).

Kawagoe City (2023), ,”Akiya banku” [Vacant house bank], https://www.city.kawagoe.saitama.jp/smph/kurashi/jutaku/akiyataisaku/bank-hp2.html (17.06.2024).

Platz, Annemone (2024), “From social issue to art site and beyond – reassessing rural akiya kominkan,” Contemporary Japan 36, 1: 41-56. 43-44.

Seki, Kōya (2022), “Kankōbaburu no ato no kawagoe o omou.” [Thinking of Kawagoe after the tourism bubble], in: TURNS, April (51): 78-83.

Stephan Bogedain is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin.

by Anton Hinz

Koyasan is a small town in Wakayama Prefecture with a population of about 3000. What makes it special is that the town consists of 117 temples and a third of the population are Buddhist monks.  Koyasan is the home of Shingon Esoteric Buddhism and was founded in 816 by the monk Kūkai (774-835), who is also the founder of this branch of Buddhism. Koyasan has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2004. It is located on a mountain peak of about 800 meters. According to mythology, the location of Koyasan was chosen because the surrounding mountain peaks resemble the shape of a lotus flower. The visitwakayama website  describes Koyasan as “one of Japan’s most sacred sites” that has been visited by “emperors, feudal lords, aristocrats, politicians, acolytes and ordinary citizens”. These “ordinary citizens” have grown to a steady number of about 1.4 million foreign and Japanese visitors per year, or nearly 4,000 visitors per day – outnumbering the local population. Considering that many visitors stay for one or more nights, the number of visitors can even exceed 10,000 on any given day.

Almost 6 years ago, I was fortunate enough to work at one of the temples that offer authentic temple lodging (shukubō). During my time there, I spent many contemplative hours wandering the temple grounds before sunrise or after sunset, when guests were busy having their traditional breakfast or dinner (shōjin ryōri). Despite how beautiful and spiritual the city still is, I could not help but wonder if the large crowds standing in line, taking pictures, or talking loudly were somewhat at odds with the religious significance and spirituality of Koyasan. Silvia Aulet and Tomasz Duda (2020) have introduced the concept of spiritual sustainability. While sustainability is usually considered from an economic, environmental or socio-cultural perspective, in the case of sacred sites spiritual sustainability is defined as the preservation of the spirit of a place, its original use, and the sacredness of the site (Aulet & Duda, 2020, p. 5). But in addition to spiritual sustainability the economic, environmental, and socio-cultural sustainability of sacred sites remain important as well.

What does it mean for a sacred site to be spiritually unsustainable? Desecration and dispossession of a site can occur when visitors behave disrespectfully or when the site becomes “over-commercialized and its sacredness can no longer be perceived” (Aulet & Duda, 2020, p. 5). Another way this can happen is when “locals are unable to perform rituals at sacred sites, or even when sacred objects are decontextualized” (ibid, p. 5). In the case of Koyasan, one could argue that monks are inhibited in performing rituals by their new role as tour guides or perceived tourist attractions, and that the presence of recording devices or a noisy visitor distracts from the austere morning ceremonies. I have found that guiding visitors through Koyasan as a cultural heritage site and the teachings of Shingon Esoteric Buddhism is not a hindrance to their rituals and monastic duties, but a modern extension of them. Nevertheless, the disruption of the austere atmosphere by the sheer number of visitors, many of whom take pictures and few of whom adhere to spoken or unspoken guidelines, seems to contribute to a degree of spiritual unsustainability.

Koyasan was, and in some cases still is, a beloved destination for pilgrims. Modern accessibility has affected not only the perception of the site, but also the use of some of its features. In order to make the site more accessible to visitors, it was equipped with a cable car that carries passengers several hundred meters up the mountain, connected to a long, sloping train line that comes from Kyoto and passes through many smaller stations. In addition, a winding, well-constructed road was built into the mountainside for easy access by car. While they can still be seen in their towering beauty, most of Koyasan’s historic large wooden gates have been stripped of their function as welcoming signs for a weary traveler who has been walking for several days to reach Koyasan. To combat overtourism and maintain Koyasan’s spiritual sustainability, an article in the Asahi Shimbun of March 2, 2024 suggests that the mayor of Koyasan consider taxing visitors to Koyasan to reinvest the money in the maintenance and repair of public facilities and roads. Similar concepts are being implemented in other tourist hotspots in Japan, such as Myajima Island, as well as in European cities such as Venice.

On the other hand, the presence and behavior of tourists need not negatively affect a site and its spiritual sustainability. Kaori Yanata (2021, p. 5) argues that tourism is a kind of “secular substitute for organized religion”. The free time that tourists take for themselves serves as spirituality per se, because it can provide “a space for the contemplative and the creative, a unity of thought and action.” In this way, Shingon Esoteric Buddhism, which reaches approximately 1.4 million people per year, and up to 10,000 daily visitors who experience the spirituality of an ancient site, could further fuel the spiritual current of Koyasan. A full analysis of the impact of tourism on Koyasan is yet to be conducted, but for now, Koyasan is a shining fortress of spirituality and religiosity, and it seems likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.

References:

Aulet, S. & Duda, T. (2020), “Tourism Accessibility and Its Impact on the Spiritual Sustainability of Sacred Sites,” Sustainability 12, doi:10.3390/su12229695.

Ohno, H. (2024), “Mount Koyasan town eyes charging visitors with special tax,” The Asahi Shimbun, https://www.asahi.com/ajw/articles/15185726#:~:text=In%202023%2C%20the%20World%20Heritage,and%2030%2C000%20visitors%20every%20day

The Official Wakayama Travel Guide (2024). Koyasan Area: Majestic Temples and Rich Nature.  https://visitwakayama.jp/en/stories/koyasan#78

Anton Hinz is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Gina Bresch

In 2019, after finishing school, I decided to go to Japan for a few months to do voluntary service. I ended up in Tokushima City, the capital of the prefecture of the same name on the smallest of Japan’s four main islands, Shikoku. While many of my fellow volunteers, who came through the same agency, were the only ones at their placement, I was lucky enough to become part of a large team of volunteers who worked, ate and lived together. For three months I was part of the NPO “Bizan Daigaku” where I did a lot of hard but rewarding work. 

One of the people I met during that time was a former volunteer who worked at one of the nurseries we sometimes worked at; a Russian woman named Zhanna. After her volunteer work ended, she had traveled a lot in the Tokushima area and liked the tranquility of it more than the big cities in Japan, so she decided to stay. I didn’t see her very often while I was working in Tokushima, but I learned that she had later secured a position as an English teacher. Even after Zhanna left the volunteer program, she remained close to the close-knit community of the Bizan Daigaku organization. We saw each other from time to time, and I was very impressed with her Japanese language skills and admired how she lived in Tokushima, away from her family, and found her own way. I hoped that one day I would be able to come to Japan for a permanent stay like she had.

When I returned to Japan in late 2022, I met Zhanna and found out that she had moved to Kaiyō, a small town on the south coast of Tokushima. She seemed very busy with her work. She told us about her work and what made her move to remote Kaiyō. After living in Tokushima City for a while, Zhanna had begun traveling to Kaiyō on weekends. She saw it as an escape from her busy work life in the city and began to wonder what it would be like to live in this place, which she came to appreciate more and more. At the same time, Zhanna had started taking surfing lessons in Tokushima City, and since Kaiyō is known to have the biggest waves in the prefecture, she thought it would help her improve her surfing skills if she moved there. When I talked to her, she even called it “Surfers’ Mekka.

Zhanna lives in Kaiyō, but works in a town called Minami, which is 40 minutes away by car. She works in the Regional Revitalization Division of the Tokushima Southern Prefectural Office, which includes Kaiyō City, Minami City, Anan City, and others. Of these, I was only familiar with Anan City because one of the nurseries where I volunteered was located there. As you might expect, these are very remote areas that are struggling with depopulation. Zhanna is responsible for the English versions of the prefectures’ social media sites, as well as photographing “the best views and local traditions,” all with the goal of revitalizing the region. Through her work, she hopes to help promote some of the region’s specialties and its appeal to attract more (foreign) tourists to visit the southern, rural part of Tokushima Prefecture. It also involves a lot of translating and interpreting Japanese promotional material into English, such as brochures. Finally, her SNS work consists of appearing on the prefectural government’s YouTube channel, showcasing various places and activities in the area.

On the other hand, she participates in tourism fairs and conventions and speaks at the annual “Silver Daigakko” event, which is designed to help recruit new volunteer guides in Tokushima City. Her presence as a foreigner helps the cause of revitalization by adding another perspective to these rural areas that can be attractive to both Japanese and foreign visitors. Zhanna calls Tokushima a “treasure chest for exploration” and would like to share this place with many people so that they can experience a different side of Japan. As for her hopes for the future, she hopes that the infrastructure of southern Tokushima will be developed and that her work will help the area become more popular to attract new tourists. That way, the money they earn from tourism could help local people improve their lives and live more comfortably. In particular, she wants to promote the various unique festivals that take place between August and November, such as the Anan Danjiri Kenka Matsuri. I wish her and her work all the best for the future and hope to see her soon, perhaps when visiting Kaiyō myself.

Gina Bresch is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Cornelia Reiher

Rural Japan is not only an interesting field of research, but also an attractive topic for teaching Japanese Studies. In the summer of 2024, I taught a course on recent social, cultural and political dynamics in Japan’s rural areas to students of the BA program in Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin. In this course, we talked about cultural aspects of local crafts and arts and discovered several interesting initiatives to attract artists to rural Japan, realize art projects together with locals, and promote tourism through traditional crafts. Other course topics included the mobility of people as tourists, urban-rural migrants and transnational migrants and their experiences in rural Japan. We discussed differences and similarities in the lives of Japanese and foreign newcomers to the countryside and attempted to define tourism, migration and kankei jinkō through the perspectives of weblogs and social media accounts of tourists and migrants. Finally, we talked about rural revitalization policies, agriculture and municipal mergers, and followed policy developments at various levels of government to better understand central-local relations in Japan.

Not only did the students read secondary literature and analyze a variety of primary sources such as videos, websites, white papers, blogs, and social media accounts, but I also asked them to write a post for this blog on a topic they found interesting. In order to get to know the blog and the different topics and perspectives that blog authors have contributed to this blog on urban-rural migration and rural revitalization, I asked them to present three blog posts to the group. As a next step, they drafted their own posts based on the primary sources we analyzed in class or based on their own experiences in rural Japan. Over the next few weeks, we will share their posts on topics as diverse as remote work, foreign residents in rural Japan, art projects in the countryside, spiritual tourism, renovation of abandoned houses, and migration stories to Okinawa.

Since I invited students to contribute to this blog last year, this year’s students were very impressed when they read their peers’ posts. This inspired and motivated them to write their own posts. By incorporating student contributions into this blog, it has become both a resource and a method for teaching about rural Japan. I hope you will enjoy our students’ new posts!

It’s very hot in Berlin and our team is going on vacation for a few weeks. The blog will be back up on August 9. Thank you for supporting our blog and our activities. Have a wonderful summer.

Cornelia Reiher

by Cornelia Reiher

The image of rural Japan as a place where people can live in harmony with nature, raise their children in safety and live in a close-knit social community is conveyed through various media. For many urban-rural migrants, images and stories shared by friends or strangers on social media became one of the many incentives to move to the countryside. And when I had to postpone my fieldwork in Japan during the Covid-19 pandemic, the beautiful images of rice fields, picnics, the mountains and the sea shared on social media provided solace and became the object of my longing at the same time.

However, when scrolling through numerous Instagram accounts, I noticed that the depictions of the countryside often were quite similar in style. Most of them adapted to the changing seasons, showing flowers and trees, children and old people as well as everyday scenes. The profiles of businesses were often a mixture of personal stories about their owners and information about the business itself, blurring the line between private and public profiles. As a newcomer to Instagram, I had assumed that most people took the pictures they post themselves, but when I finally went to Japan, I learned two things: first, the fancy pictures on Instagram are a bit prettier than reality. Second, most of the pictures posted on Instagram were taken by professional photographers and carefully curated.

One of the photographers I met is an urban-rural migrant herself. Her work as a freelance photographer made it possible for her to move to the countryside. The other photographer is a young man from one of the cities where I conducted my field research. For him, photography was a way to stay in his hometown and earn a living. Both photograph for local artists, food stores, hostels or farmers, but also take family portraits for special occasions such as weddings or Shichi-Go-San, a traditional Japanese rite of passage and festival for three- and seven-year-old girls, five-year-olds and sometimes three-year-old boys, which takes place every year on November 15 to celebrate the growth and well-being of children.  Many of these images are posted via Instagram, either by their clients or on their own profiles, which also serve to showcase their work and attract new clients.

Yuri (pseudonym) is from Kansai and is in her early 30s. During the pandemic, she was able to work from home and went on “workations.” She visited several places in Japan, including Okinawa, to work. By chance, she met someone who recommended one of my field sites in Kyushu, and she looked at the Instagram profile of an accommodation there. She was fascinated by these pictures, because they gave her a warm feeling and the impression of “being at home.” She immediately contacted the accommodation, visited it twice for a short workation and finally moved there in 2023. Many of her photographs now appear on her hosts’ Instagram profile, she gives lectures on photography and continues to work remotely for a company in Kansai and take freelance photography assignments across Japan.

Takumi (pseudonym) is in his mid-20s and has always lived in his hometown. He decided to attend a university nearby, and when he graduated, he realized that he would like to live and work in his hometown. He has always been interested in photography, but never thought he could earn a living from it. Through contacts with artists, he learned that there are people who live in the countryside but also work for clients in the city and make a living from their art. He got his first commission through a friend, and since then he has been booked by local businesses and families, but also has commissions outside his home prefecture. In addition to his commissioned work, he also photographs the everyday lives of locals and has had several exhibitions showing his work. Many of his photographs are shared on Instagram.

The promotional material provided by rural prefectures and cities aimed at attracting new residents often only reaches a small number of people, but Yuri and Takumi’s pictures on Instagram have a much larger audience. A local government official told me that self-promotion of the experiences of urban-rural migrants in the countryside through social media is much more effective than the videos of local or prefectural governments distributed through YouTube or their official websites. For Yuri, who was attracted to the countryside by images others shared on Instagram, and who now produces and shares such images herself, this is the magic of social media.

by Anne-Sophie L. König

The cold was slowly creeping through my jeans on a cold February day in 2023 as I tried to keep my balance sitting on a bridge railing, while writing down field notes. I had just come from an hour-long interview with the chairman of the village assembly of Minamiyamashiro in Kyōto Prefecture and I did not want to forget anything he had said. As part of my doctoral thesis on the phenomenon of candidate shortage (narite busoku) in local elections, I wanted to find out why there is a shortage of candidates in all towns in the area except for Minamiyamashiro.

I first came across Minamiyamashiro when I checked the voter turnout in the towns and villages of Kyōto Prefecture during my research stay in Japan from 2022 to 2023. Looking at the map of Kyōto municipalities, I noticed a pattern. The shape of the prefecture looks like a European dragon, with Kyōtango city in the southwest as the dragon’s head, then in the stubby tail that stretches far into the mountains between Nara, Shiga and Mie prefectures in the northeast lies Sōraku district with Minamiyamashiro. In this spur, there are a number of towns where uncontested elections were held due to a lack of candidates, and at the border of the prefecture is Minamiyamashiro, the outlier. Between 2011 and 2024, there were five uncontested elections in Ide, one in Wazuka, four in Kasagi, while in Minamiyamashiro, voter turnout was between 69 and 81 percent over the same period. I found that strange. Why does the village furthest from the urban center have such a high voter turnout, while the neighboring communities struggle to hold an election at all? This is why I decided to contact all municipalities, and went to Minamiyamashiro and Kasagi for interviews. I reached the municipalities via train in about 2 and a half hours from Demachiyanagi station in Kyōto. In Kizu I boarded a cute little train running once every hour. Historically, all of the towns and the village focused on agriculture and forestry. One famous export product was tea, but tea production and agriculture remained as a main industry only in Minamiyamashiro. From the train following the flow of Kizu river the change from rice paddies to steep tea plantations is clearly visible. In summer, the producers offer a tea plantation experience with a guided tour through the processing facilities.

In Kasagi, many people began to commute to the larger town of Kizu or further afield to work in the industry. Ecotourism also gained traction with a larger campground and climbing areas at the famous boulders located at the mouth of a gorge carved by the Kizu River. Kasagi used to have a different clientele, as evidenced by the closed onsen hotel uphill from the boulders, but those days sadly seem to be over. There is a good network of hiking trails in the mountains that follow the stream of Kizu River, and on winter mornings you have a breathtaking view of the so-called unkai – the sea of clouds – that covers the valley. When I climbed up to Kasagi Temple, the sun was bright in the sky and I could clearly see Kasagi from above. The temple is really worth a visit because of the impressively large Buddhas carved in stone and the beautiful rock formations.

In the low season, the communities in Sōraku are a little short of cafés and restaurants. This is why I decided to start writing down my field notes on a bridge in the cold February. Later, I found food and a warm spot in a bentō delivery store run by a U-turn migrant who used to work for the Kyōto city government. He wanted to leave the bustling city and do something meaningful in his hometown. After work, he sat down with me while I ate and talked about life and politics in the village and in Sōraku district. He did not understand why his fellow villagers were so fired up at election time. Instead, he showed me some footage from the local TV station about migrants like him and pointed out that it’s not just about politics and tourism. Apart from his bentō business that caters to administration, tea producers and the elderly, there were some recent college graduates who had set up a wildlife farm to capitalize on the new culinary trends in the Kansai region. He wondered if people in Minamiyamashiro are simply more invested in village politics, as they are mostly tea farmers. Working and living in the same place as opposed to commuting, he assumes, naturally creates interest in affairs village.

In my doctoral thesis, I will dig deeper into the puzzle of the Sōraku district. As the district’s municipalities are quite small and their population is only in the low four-digit range. Therefore, the lack of candidates for political positions is a major problem. However, the communities are not only interesting case studies for my dissertation, the visit there also gave me interesting insights into life in the countryside, the challenges faced by the communities and the unpredictability of fieldwork. I can highly recommend a visit if you are interested in rural Japan, as the district is easily accessible even without a car. Moreover, if I somehow tickled your interest in the candidate shortage issue, I recommend staying tuned for my doctoral thesis!

References:

Seijiyama Minamiyamashiro (2024), Minamiyamashiro, https://seijiyama.jp/lgov/26/263672/

Kasagidera (2024), Kasagidera Temple, https://kasagidera.net/  

Anne-Sophie L. König is a doctoral candidate in Japanese Studies at the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München and a research associate in the DFG project “Demography and Democracy: How Population Ageing Changes Democracy – The Example of Japan”. Her research interests include politics in Japan with a focus on democracy studies and local politics. She can be reached at an.koenig@lmu.de.

by Lise Sasaki

In a rapidly ageing and depopulating society, Japanese women are facing unprecedented challenges to maintain their economic and social status. Their situation has worsened due to the increase in female unemployment in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic. Exacerbated by the pandemic, derailing career paths are typical experiences for women in Japanese society. On top of this, political and societal pressure to perform as working women and to fix the declining birth rate can be overwhelming for many women. In 2018, my engagement as a research assistant led me to Tosa-chō in Kōchi Prefecture, where domestic migrants (ijūsha), among them many women, have settled, started families and developed a sense of belonging. In a rapidly depopulating post-pandemic Japan, where women face the brunt of economic decline and are less likely than ever before to start families, I have been eager to understand why migrants move to rural areas to raise children. 

Tosa-chō is a town in Kochi Prefecture with about 3,500 residents. 40% of the population is aged 65 or older, and the population has declined by 50% over the past 40 years to 3,803 people (Tosa-chō 2020). This rural mountainous area is remote, with the nearest city, Kōchi City, one hour away. Tosa-chō’s population is widely scattered across the town’s 15 districts.Some of the more remote villages have fewer than 15 inhabitants. It is almost impossible to access some of these villages without a car, as they are located deep in the mountains, far away from the more populated villages in the valley. It can take more than one hour by car from some of these villages to a public facility such as a post office or town hall.

I have become close with a few ijūsha women who have moved to Tosa-chō for various reasons like seeking refuge after the Fukushima nuclear disaster in 2011, pursuing serenity amidst the pressures of urban living, and desiring healing within the lush green and the flowing waters of Tosa-chō. The town is known to have one of the most beautiful rivers in the country. While none of these ijūsha women expressed they had ‘lost’ themselves in their past urban city lives, it seemed Tosa-chō served as an avenue to cultivate an identity they were in search of. It became evident that their sense of belonging was nurtured through strong interpersonal connections. Ijūsha women viewed rural lifestyles as ideal, and while they envisioned a hybrid, tranquil lifestyle, they set out to connect to the land and the locals. This ideal life was most evident when I observed their kitchens, where migrant women chose old-fashioned kitchens over contemporary system kitchens. Utilizing the Kamado (Furnace Stoves) instead of gas stoves and handed down wooden cabinets instead of contemporary all-in-one cabinets exemplified their carefully constructed living spaces and atmospheres through cooking and homemaking.

Embraced warmly by older residents of the town, the newcomers are initiated into a culture rooted in communal care and mutual support, exemplified by practices such as osusowake (sharing food) and village rituals. I wondered whether their quest for belonging extended beyond mere communal ties to encompass a more profound yearning for love, nurturance and care bestowed by others. A recent conversation with a close friend who moved to Tosa-chō ten years ago to raise her children emphasized the importance of physical closeness in experiencing love. For her, love is felt deeply when you can touch and feel it, so that you sense intimacy and warmth. “In cities,” she said, “where is the time for each of us to feel this warmth between us?” In an increasingly digitalized society, she believes the virtual world somehow lacks emotional connection, perhaps because it is a physically individual activity that is not shared. But in Tosa-chō, the human-to-human connection remained and she was able to experience physical connections and empathy every day. At the same time, she also pointed out the tensions between the young ijūsha and the locals: “I love it here, I really do … but now that I’ve been here for almost 10 years, I sometimes feel the need to breathe.”  This statement and my own experiences in Tosa-chō made me think about the permanence of these social bonds. I experienced the rapid spread of information by word of mouth myself. If I ran into a friend at the market, a mutual friend would often check in with me a few minutes later and kindly remind me that the vegetables I had bought were cheaper at the farmer’s market three miles away. Stories and information seemed to spread faster and further, and I remember a sense of invasion of my personal space. Against this backdrop, I am curious to explore how ijūsha women achieve a balance between connectedness and autonomy as they navigate the complexities of belonging in Tosa-chō. I am particularly interested in the shifting forms of belonging in this digitalized society, to explore the ways in which rural life is dissolving into new ways of living that provide a sense of healing for ijūsha women.

References

Kōchi Prefecture Tosa-chō Home Page (2020). Tosa chō. Retrieved from http://www.town.tosa.kochi.jp/ Last accessed May 2024.

Lise Sasaki is a freelance researcher who has worked on projects at UCL Anthropology and Osaka University. Her research explores the redefinition of female identity and its implications for motherhood in contemporary Japan.

by Cecilia Luzi

Despite similar structural conditions, rural Japan is incredibly diverse, and the encounter between a place and a migrant can create unique opportunities that are influenced by the socio-economic and historical context of the place, as well as the individual inspirations and personal connections of the migrants. I will illustrate this with the example of Hannah’s migratory experience. I met Hannah on a cloudy afternoon under the cherry blossoms in Hasami Public Park in the spring of 2023. We were organizing a hanami with our children, and she joined us after picking up her daughters from kindergarten. Originally from Germany, Hannah came to Japan over ten years ago to learn pottery and improve her skills in Arita, the neighboring town of Hasami.  She has not left Kyūshū since. While at school, Hannah met Isamu, a fellow student from Kumamoto Prefecture, who later became her husband. Together they moved to Hasami, where she began working in the workshop of a renowned potter in the arts and crafts district of Nakaoyama. Today, she runs a very successful small ceramics studio in Hasami together with her husband.

Like Arita, Hasami has a rich history of industrial pottery production that has profoundly shaped the town’s socio-economic structure. Older residents, aged 80 and above, recall times when pottery permeated every aspect of town life, from the extraction of kaolin to the decoration of the finished pieces. Unlike the high-quality porcelain of neighboring Arita, Hasami’s ceramics have always been intended for everyday use. As a result, identical designs were produced by numerous kilns scattered throughout the municipality, encouraging cooperation rather than competition between kilns. Even today, smaller family-run kilns exist alongside larger companies, forming a tight-knit community around ceramic production. This environment offers both the population and institutions the opportunity to support small and young artisans so that they can maintain their activity. Also, and more importantly, it has laid the ground for the creation of a basic working infrastructure in recent decades, such as the akikōbo bank, a website similar to akiya banks that provides information on free workshops or other business ventures, or the Ceramic Research Center of Nagasaki Prefecture (Nagasaki ken yōgyō gijutsu sentā) among many exposition venues and shops.

It was therefore easier for Hannah and Isamu to set up their own workshop and settle in Hasami after completing their studies in Arita. They set up their first pottery workshop with the help of the akikōbo bank. In Hasami, I met other migrants who had similar experiences. In our conversations, I often felt how big Hannah’s decision was and how determined she was to pursue her dreams in Hasami, even though it is so remote. Over the past few years, Isamu and Hannah have managed to purchase a plot of land, build their new house and recently inaugurated a new workshop directly below their house on the same plot of land they purchased. As we talked, Hannah reflected on how her life had turned out, occasionally wondering how it would have turned out if she hadn’t held on to her dream of becoming a potter in rural Japan. Nevertheless, she decided to make Hasami her home.

I think it’s more than just the furusato idea and the rural idyll that romanticizes rural Japan as a nostalgic space that attracts young, determined people today. The migrants I met are very self-aware and self-reflective; when they move, they know that life in rural Japan is a challenge and that it will not be easy there. Yet each place in their stories represents different dreams. The communities they eventually move to have great significance for them and their lives. Sometimes they pay great attention to the choice of place and associate it with hopes for their future lives, even if they do not plan to stay forever. For them, rural Japan is not just an indeterminate space or a furusato in itself, but each place represents the potential for a future life. In this sense, Hasami has a special attraction for potters and all activities related to pottery and pottery tourism.

by Lynn Ng

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

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

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

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

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