by Lynn Ng

I have a love-hate relationship with fieldwork. I’m sure many researchers can relate to this, and previous authors of this blog have reported on their ups and downs in the field and after fieldwork (Klien, 2023; Luzi, 2024). I was no different. I started my research in the area of the former Fukushima nuclear exclusion zones in 2019 and have followed the lives of many of my research participants over the past five years:  I observed the early courtship of a young couple in 2019 and congratulated them on their second child last Christmas. I listened to an enthusiastic civil servant explain his vision for Fukushima and watched him retire in the spring of 2024. I watched the demolition of abandoned houses and the construction of new buildings and saw the unexpected departure of old entrepreneurs and the exuberant entry of new entrepreneurs.

Throughout these events, however, I was always aware of my status as an outsider observing the field and its people and taking notes. Field researchers often reflect upon positionality and ethics: we discuss whether you should be friends with your research participants and how much you should interfere in their lives (see for example McLaughlin, 2020). I would think about whether these questions are rhetorical: Can one really examine the field without befriending the field? Nevertheless, these questions and boundaries have haunted and exhausted me over the years. I attended local barbecues and dinners of my research participants just to try to take as many notes as discreetly as possible. My research participants, of course, knew me as “Lynn, the researcher.” I never tried to hide the fact that I was researching them, although I often wished I wasn’t. I often wanted to just be their friend rather than write a dissertation about them. I often wished I could enjoy the moments without the worries of research hovering over me.

Thus, in March 2024, as my flight departed Japan for Germany, I breathed a deep, long sigh of relief – my time in the field, albeit fragmented, had finally come to an end. The long flight was of bittersweet significance as I emotionally drew closure to my position as a researcher of Fukushima and Japan. I was ready to switch off research-mode and begin writing my thesis. And after the thesis? I would return to Japan as a visitor enjoying all Japan and Fukushima offers. In the summer of 2024, however, I was unexpectedly presented with a chance to revisit my field through the university’s summer school program in collaboration with IRIDES at Sendai University. Amidst all the internal emotional conflict with the field, I joined the summer school. For ten days, I visited places new and old and listened to intellectual debates on the recovery and revitalization of Tohoku after 2011. Despite my apprehension, I was again filled with curiosities for the field – the same curiosities that first drove me to research Fukushima in 2019. New observations had led to new questions and the urge to seek answers. I was eager to learn more, to ask more questions, and to experience more of the field.

In the end, ten days was too short. On my flight back to Germany, I wondered when I would be able to return to Japan to get my new questions answered. In the end, I wonder if I will ever be able to finish my work as a field researcher. In the meantime, I am trying to finish my PhD and use the positive energy of this last and unexpected visit to my field to look at the data I collected before from a new perspective. And hopefully I will return to Japan soon, both as a friend and as a researcher.

Reference:

McLaughlin, Levi (2020), “How to do fieldwork: Studying Japan in and outside of Japan,” in: Kottmann, Nora and Reiher, Cornelia (eds.), Studying Japan: Handbook of Research Design, Fieldwork and Methods, Baden-Baden: Nomos, pp. 157-168.

by Cornelia Reiher

After studying urban-rural migration in Japan over time, I realized that the mobilities of urbanites in the countryside and beyond are very dynamic. Over the years, I met people who moved to a rural town, stayed there for a few years and then moved to another rural area within Japan. There were also migrants who moved back to the city they came from, while others moved abroad. Still others have never confined themselves to one place of residence and lead a mobile life between two or more places. Even the Japanese government has recognized more mobile lifestyles and supports the promotion of kankei jinkō. The term has been awkwardly translated into English as “relationship population” and refers to a group of highly mobile people who regularly spend time in the countryside (Dilley et al. 2024).

In this article, I introduce Yuri, who first came to the countryside for a workation, returned several times and later moved to a rural town where she now lives part-time. I met Yuri in the fall of 2022 in a small town in Kyūshū where she currently rents a room in a sharehouse. She is a photographer and web designer in her early thirties who lived in Kansai and spent her second workation in Kyūshū when we first met. Workation combines the words “work” and “vacation” and means working remotely from a location of your choice rather than from home. When their work is done, workationers can explore their destination. In Japan, workation is closely linked to initiatives by local governments in rural Japan to attract people to visit, work and ideally settle in their communities (Matsushita 2022; Yoshida 2021). When the COVID-19 pandemic started, Yuri was able to work remotely and went on workations to different parts of Japan. In Okinawa, she met a girl who had been to Kyūshū and had helped to renovate a sharehouse. Yuri visited the sharehouse’s social media account and decided that she wanted to go there right away because the photos made her feel “at home” (atto hōmu na kanji). In 2022, she lived in the sharehouse, helped with renovations of another sharehouse and worked remotely. In January 2023, she relocated and moved into the sharehouse she had helped renovate, continued her remote work, and found work as a freelance photographer.

During our first meeting, we connected via social media. On social media, urban-rural migrants often use arrows between two place names to show where they have moved from and where to, but usually the arrow is pointing in only one direction. But some people like Yuri use arrows pointing in two directions to show that they are highly mobile individuals. In addition, many use the hashtag “nikyoten seikatsu” (living in two places). Yuri’s social media accounts document her travels all over Japan. She shows beautiful rural landscapes alternating with portraits of people and products. She describes her lifestyle as temporary migration (ichijiteki ijū) and enjoys her life between Kansai and Kyūshū as much as traveling within Japan for several months per year. The sharehouse itself is a place where people often only stay temporarily and Yuri enjoys meeting new people. In the spring of 2023, I lived with Yuri in the sharehouse and found her well-integrated into the community of urban-rural migrants, but she had also become friends with her elderly neighbors. Within the few weeks I spent with her, she had jobs in Kyūshū and went to Kyōto, Ōsaka and Okinawa. Although she rents a room in the sharehouse, the small town is more of a temporary base for her.

The reasons why people leave and move on are diverse, but for most of my research participants, the COVID-19 pandemic was a reason to choose a more mobile lifestyle. Yuri, for example, told me how free she felt when she was able to work remotely when the pandemic started in 2020 and her work style changed. Before the pandemic, she barely had time for anything other than her work because of the long commute. When she was able to work from home, she finally found the time to focus more on photography – a long-held wish. In addition, she was able to work all over Japan. Telecommuting offered the opportunity to work anywhere and made urban-rural migration and workation more attractive. Workation offered Yuri a new mobile lifestyle that would eventually lead her to move to Kyūshū. Generally speaking, remote work and workation increased the number of short-term visitors and kankei jinkō in the countryside (Dilley 2024; Matsushita 2022; Yoshida 2021), and some of these short-term visitors, like Yuri, decided to stay longer. Thus, changing work styles go hand in hand with mobilities and bring about change in rural Japan.

References:

Dilley, Luke, Menelaos Gkartzios, Shogo Kudo, Tokumi Odagiri (2024), “Hybridising counterurbanisation: Lessons from Japan’s kankeijinkō,” Habitat International 143, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.habitatint.2023.102967.

Matsushita, Keita (2022), “How the Japanese workcation embraces digital nomadic work style employees,” World Leisure Journal 65 (2): 218–235.

Yoshida, Tatsuya (2021), “How Has Workcation Evolved in Japan?” Annals of Business Administrative Science 20: 19–32.

Our team will take a break over the holidays. The blog will be back on January 10. Thank you for following our blog and for supporting our activities. Happy holidays and a happy new year!

This year, we have a special Christmas treat for you. Cornelia Reiher has edited a volume about processes of change in rural Japan during the COVID-19 pandemic. It contains a selection of posts from this blog and is available free of charge via the CrossAsia Open Access Repository: https://repository.crossasia.org/receive/crossasia_mods_00000588  

Reiher, C. (Hg.), 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

by Simon Hörig

Surrounded by lush greenery, accompanied by the incessant chirping of cicadas in summer and a thick blanket of snow in winter, stands a farm house in Uwayu-mura (Tokamachi-shi) in Niigata Prefecture. The house is from the early Shōwa period with the words ‘Yume no ie’ above the entrance. However, the wood panelling and the impressive roof covering of the house give no clue as to what might be inside. Like many other formerly abandoned houses in the countryside, this akiya kominka was restored and converted into a venue for an art installation as part of the Echigo-Tsumari Art Triennial in 2000. ‘Yume no Ie’ or “Dream House” is the art project of artist Marina Abramovic, an interactive art experience where visitors can spend the night in a nightmare created by Abramovic (Ha 2023). In the colour-coded rooms, you can sleep in coffin-like beds while wearing similarly colour-coded sleepwear, eat a Western breakfast and, at the end, document dreams you might have while sleeping in the artwork.

When I looked at the art installation on the internet, I imagined a stay in this strange hotel as a visit to an almost unreal, distorted Japanese house. I noticed an obvious but surprising contrast between the exterior and interior of the kominka. However, I was even more surprised by some of the statements made by the artist Marina Abramovic about her own art installation. In one of her many statements about the Dream House, she said that she wanted this house to be part of the residents’ lives (Ha 2023). I wondered how this could work, as Eimi Tagore (2024) had highlighted the problem of the ‘theme park appeal’ of art installations in rural Japan, which attract crowds of tourists but ultimately cause more problems for local residents than they do positive change (Tagore 2024). Can an art installation really be valued as part of people’s lives in a rural area if, at first glance, the purpose of the installation is only to attract and harbour tourists? How successful is Abramovic’s art project in terms of facilitating the creation of community spaces that she promises?

To answer this question, I wanted to look at Abramovic’s project from multiple angles by consulting literature on art, abandoned houses, the difference between elite based, top-down art projects and a more hybrid case of top-down planned and bottom-up community engaged art projects (Platz 2024, Qu 2020). Statements about the sustainable impact of art work on local residents’ lives can also be found on the Echigo-Tsumari Art Trienniale’s (ETAT) official website.The organizers of ETAT list what revitalization through art projects in the region looks like. For one, it claims that the engagement between artist and local community is an essential part of the art festival and its installations, and it states that the local community becomes a source of collaborators for the artwork. Furthermore, it says that young people from metropolitan areas often volunteer locally, facilitating an intergenerational exchange that results in cooperation and appreciation between old and young (ETAT 2024). This effect of repurposing of vacant houses for art projects on community revitalization and integration is also found in the research of Anemone Platz, in which they show that the so called yosomono, or outsider, can “function as a bridge between the kominka and the residents, the art site, and the visiting audience” (Platz 2024). Through further research into Abramovic’s Dream House, I was able to find this connection between locals and artworks by outsiders. The residents of Uwayu and the managers of the Dream House, Emiko Takahashi, Sachiko Murayama and Masako Takasawa, emphasise that the Dream House has brought about a positive change for the town. They appreciate the reuse of kominka, even if they don’t fully understand the art itself, and say they are excited about the help of young volunteers from the big cities. One of the leaders, Emiko Takahashi, says: ‘When young people who were once volunteers come back with their own children, I feel like my daughter has come back with my grandchild’ (Uchida 2019).

ETAT also positions the art projects of its art festivals as unique hubs. They are not just meant to be disconnected works of art, but art installations that connect villages through modern engineering structures and create permanent places within works of art in rural communities (Qu 2020). I would be interested in how the local community is connected to breakfast at the Dream House, for example, as this could be another way of engaging locally. Ultimately, while there is reason to be critical of the content of art projects brought into a rural area from outside (Qu 2020), it is evident that Marina Abramovic’s Dream House integrates the community of Uwayu and exists not just as an artificially implanted artwork, but can be seen as a community-engaged art installation.

References:

ETAT (Echigo-Tsumari Art Triennale) (2024), „About ETAT,“  https://www.echigo-tsumari.jp/en/about/

Ha, Thu-Huong (2023), “Sixteen hours in Marina Abramovic’s nightmare hotel,” The Japan Times, July 2, 2023, https://www.japantimes.co.jp/culture/2023/07/03/arts/abramovic-dream-house/

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

Qu, Meng (2020), “Teshima: From Island art to the art island: Art on/for a previously declining Japanese Inland Sea Island,” Shima – The International Journal of Research Into Island Cultures 14, 2, pp. 250-265.

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

Uchida Shinichi (2019), “An over 100-year-old minka (house) repurposed as ‘artwork to stay overnight,’” https://www.echigo-tsumari.jp/en/media/190926-yumenoie/

Simon Hörig is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Sarah Clay

To address the growing demographic challenges in rural Japan, the Japanese government has implemented the Rural Revitalization and Relocation Support Program (chihō sōsei ijū shien jigyō). Since 2019, this initiative offers financial incentives of up to 600,000 yen per person to encourage urban residents from one of Tokyo’s 23 wards to relocate to less populated regions. Initially, the program required recipients to secure employment in their new rural community, strategically aiming to attract working professionals and families. In August of this year, however, Japanese media reported a proposed expansion of the program specifically targeting unmarried women. The new policy would provide female Tokyoites up to 600,000 yen without the previous employment requirement. The initiative would first cover travel expenses for attending local matchmaking events, with additional funding available for those who ultimately decide to relocate (Okabayashi and Matsuyama 2024).

The proposed policy emerged from the fact that annually, more women than men relocate to the Tokyo Metropolitan Area for educational and professional opportunities (Yamada and Kihara 2024).  Also, women return less often to their home prefectures after establishing their lives in the city. This migration pattern has contributed to a significant gender imbalance, with most prefectures outside Tokyo experiencing approximately 20% fewer women compared to men (Jiji 2024).  As such, there is an increasing number of single men around 50 years old—both never-married and divorced—who reside with their parents in declining rural municipalities (Tanaka and Iwasawa 2010).

The policy proposal immediately received much criticism from in and outside of the government. Some argued that the initiative attempted to “purchase” potential wives for rural men and reinforce social narratives that value women primarily through their potential roles as mothers and wives. Others questioned the policy’s effectiveness; a modest relocation incentive of 600,000 yen would be unlikely to motivate a highly educated, professionally established woman to leave their urban life behind (Yasmin 2024).  Also, critical voices pointed out that existing municipal matchmaking events targeting urban women and rural men have yielded minimal success, hence that financial incentives do not suffice to make people fall in love (Yamada and Kihara 2024). After a few days, these criticisms prompted Regional Revitalization Minister Jimi Hanako to publicly reconsider the proposed intervention.

During my research on migration into the Miyako Islands, I got the impression that women are actually often the primary actors in urban-to-rural migration in Japan. Moreover, during my online and offline fieldwork, I met a few women who were or had been in a relationship with local men. My favorite story is that of Ishikawa Reiko. Reiko is a very cheerful and talkative woman in her mid-forties who runs a small café on Miyako. Born and raised in Tokyo, she started her career successfully as a graphic designer making websites for companies. Also, she loved online gaming and played the same game every day when she got home from work. She told me how she developed a friendship with someone from that gaming community. She did not know his real name or the place where he was living, but they shared many details about their daily lives. “We did not know each other’s names but knew what we had eaten the night before. We got very close to one another” (Interview with Reiko, 9 September 2022).

The first time they met in real life, Reiko’s gaming friend visited her in Tokyo. He turned out to be a doctor from Miyako Island in Okinawa Prefecture. By that time, Reiko was working from home because she had some issues with her health and could not commute to her office every day. When her friend was about to return, he told her that he was living in a relatively large house with two stories separated from each other. If she wanted, she could take her computer and live on the second floor of his house, just for a while, so her health could recover.  Reiko did not know anything about Miyako or Okinawa in general. She told me that she always wanted to live in Hokkaido, as she liked knitting and cold environments. Yet, being inside her small Tokyo apartment all day, she figured it would be a good opportunity to do more physical exercises and finally get her driver’s license. A few days later, she boarded a plane to Miyako Island— stunned to learn about the remote location of her destination. Despite the “culture shock” that she experienced upon arrival, the two fell in love, and Reiko has been living on the island ever since.

The story of Reiko is that of a woman who came to Miyako with different incentives and fell in love with a local man along the way. From the outside, her trajectory might be seen as a successful case of marriage migration. However, Reiko’s relocation could not have been the result of match-making events or governmental policies such as the ones outlined above.  Rather, her narrative offers a nuanced perspective on the complex dynamics of urban-to-rural migration, including career prospects, aspirations of personal growth, health, technologies and a good amount of serendipity.

References

Jiji (2024), “Japan to support women moving from Tokyo to countryside for marriage,” The Japan Times, August 28, 2024, https://www.japantimes.co.jp/news/2024/08/28/japan/society/women-rural-areas/

Okabayashi, S., and Matsuyama, S. (2024), “Josei no ‘ijūkon’ shien: Tōkyō 23 ku→chihō de saidai 60 man en,” Asahi Shinbun Digital, August 28, 2024, https://www.asahi.com/articles/ASS8X2VWRS8XULFA00TM.html (accessed on 21 November 2024).

Tanaka, K., and Iwasawa, M. (2010), “Aging in Rural Japan—Limitations in the Current Social Care Policy,” Journal of Aging & Social Policy 22(4): 394-406.

Yamada, Y., and Kihara, I. (2024), Chihō e no „ijūkon“ naze josei dake ni 60 man en?“ Tōkyō Shinbun, August 30, 2024, https://www.tokyo-np.co.jp/article/350881 (accessed on 21 November 2024).

Yasmin, S. (2024), “Japan drops plan to offer money to Tokyo women to move to rural areas,” Independent, September 1, 2024, https://www.independent.co.uk/asia/japan/japan-cash-incentive-single-women-tokyo-b2605144.html (accessed on 21 November 2024).

by Paul Noah Agha Ebrahim

Located in Ishikawa Prefecture, Takigahara Farm stands as a tranquil retreat that tries to combine modern comfort with traditional Japanese farming practices. While the farm offers accommodations, it also serves as a place for community, sustainability and art.  The journey started with the R-project, an urban renewal initiative led by Teruo Kurosaki (TALKING Ultrasuede n. d.), and since then several other buildings have been added to the original structure of the farm (now being used as a shared house of the community), namely a café, a hostel and a workshop studio (Kahan 2023).  Anna Jensen, a prominent member, describes Takigahara as “fluid,” emphasizing its welcoming environment where people come and go, contributing to a diverse community.  Starting off with the help of government funds, Takigahara now lives off its events, workshops and on-site products (Kahan 2023).

A notable event was the “Passenger Program”, a collaboration with the New York-based multidisciplinary eco-collective Aerthship. Founded in 2021 by Tin Mai, Aerthship is a collective of creatives that promotes an earth-centric subculture through community-centered dining experiences or the exploring of urban farming in New York (Y+L Projects 2024).  The “Passenger Program” was launched in November 2023, inviting 15 QTPOC (Queer and Trans People of Color) artists from diverse backgrounds for five days to Takigahara Farm (Marcelline 2023). This program aimed at inspiring artistic exploration and at deepening participants’ connection with the natural environment. Activities included silent walks through the farm’s lush landscapes and workshops on traditional Japanese crafts like washi papermaking (Y+L Projects 2024). Central to the event was the celebration of cultural diversity and artistic freedom. While half of the artists were from Japan, there were also participants from Vietnam, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Australia and the United States to share their unique perspectives and creative insights (Marcelline 2023).  Beyond art, the “Passenger Program” aimed at building lasting connections and inspiring positive change within the community. Journaling sessions, communal meals using locally sourced ingredients, and even movie nights became opportunities for bonding and cultural exchange.

However, this event was not only an opportunity for exchange among the participants, but also created encounters with residents of the neighboring communities. Milo Lawson, program coordinator at Takigahara Farm, said it took several years to forge a relationship with the surrounding community and that they would not have been able to host an event like this during his first year in Takigahara (Y+L Projects 2024). Nowadays, the locals make food, help run the shuttle bus around the village and even perform traditional dances at the yearly music festival hosted at Takigahara farm (Y+L Projects 2024). Creating a space in rural Japan, where locals that lived there all their life and young queer artists from around the world get to interact is what makes this farm so unique. Reflecting on the “Passenger Program’s” success, Aerthship and Takigahara Farm plan to expand their collaboration globally (Marcelline 2023). Future initiatives may include more artist residencies, cultural exchanges, and educational programs promoting sustainability and cross-cultural dialogue.

References

Kahan, K. (2023), “Takigahara: Creating a Community in Rural Japan,” Tokyo Weekender, February 16, 2023, https://www.tokyoweekender.com/travel/takigahara-community-in-rural-japan/, accessed June 17, 2024.

Marcelline, S. (2023), “Aerthship X Mimi Zhu│Artists and Ecology in Symbiosis on Japan’s Takigahara Farm,” Flaunt, https://www.flaunt.com/post/aerthship-x-mimi-zhu-artists-and-ecology-in-symbiosis-on-japans-takigahara-farm, accessed June 17, 2024.

TALKING Ultrasuede (n. d.), “Takigahara Farm,” https://talking-ultrasuede.jp/en/takigahara-farm/ accessed June 17, 2024.

Y+L Projects (2024), “How NY Collective Aerthship Found A Creative Escape in Rural Japan,” Medium, https://ylprojects.medium.com/aerthships-artist-residency-in-rural-japan-03b173b41c48, accessed June 17, 2024.

Paul Noah Agha Ebrahim is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Christoph Barann

A traditional Japanese-style house (kominka) over 100 years old in the middle of a beautiful Japanese garden provides a home for the unconventional non-Japanese Andy. The American software engineer decided to move with his wife to the new house in a rural part of Wakayama Prefecture after previously working for large technology companies in Tokyo and the United States. Andy’s move as a technology-oriented foreign migrant to a rural town in Japan is emblematic of a change in the world of work in 21 century Japan. In our course on rural Japan, we have talked about many migrants similar to Andy. They are foreign, mostly young, highly skilled people who have not settled in the traditional work centers of Japan such as Tokyo, Osaka or Fukuoka. Instead, all these migrants have taken advantage of technological developments and changing working conditions in Japanese companies to enable a move to quiet, natural landscapes without jeopardizing their jobs (Wakayama Life n.d.). What all these migrants have in common is that they make use of remote working (terewāku), where internet technology is used to work from home for companies instead of commuting to the office. Remote working has taken root in Japan during the Covid-19 pandemic from 2020 as an alternative to traditional office jobs. The Covid-19 pandemic prompted Japanese companies to look to other regions such as Southeast Asia, Western Europe and the United States, where remote working was already an established method before the pandemic. Although the number of home workers declined as the pandemic subsided, the concept has nevertheless remained an important issue in the question of employment in modern Japan.

Andy’s interview on a website promoting migration to Wakayama Prefecture mentions a trend that is still common in Japan today. (Mostly male) workers leave their rural homes during the week to commute to jobs in the big cities. Often they do not return home at all during the week and live in second homes near their workplace. Remote working can offer a solution to the emotional and financial hardships that such a routine can bring by allowing people to work for companies in the big cities or even abroad without leaving their rural homes. Remote working may also lead to a change in Japanese attitudes towards employment and, in particular, hierarchies within Japanese office culture. Japan’s culture of long hours, overtime and strict hierarchies has been blamed in the past for the country’s demographic decline, as married couples struggle to balance work commitments with raising children. A less hierarchical office culture could also encourage the influx of highly skilled workers from abroad as Japan becomes a more attractive country to work in.

As part of a broader Digital Agenda for Japan, former Prime Minister Kishida sought to increase the availability of internet in rural areas and mentioned teleworking among other aspects aimed at improving Japan’s place among advanced economies in terms of digital standards. The digital strategy promotes teleworking, especially in small and medium-sized enterprises, and particularly emphasizes equal work opportunities for people in urban and rural areas. As access to reliable high-speed internet is expected to increase in rural areas and Japanese companies are increasingly encouraged to offer remote work to their employees, regions affected by depopulation and economic hardship could be given a chance to revitalize. Local governments, which have begun to encourage rural migration by offering free housing or other benefits to immigrants from urban areas, could in future offer courses in IT-related skills or provide free internet or shared office space geared towards remote working to turn their cities into “smart cities”, a concept that has already achieved some success in Southeast Asia. Remote work also appeals more strongly to a younger, more technically adapt generation and thus offers the possibility of creating migration of skilled workers in their 20s and 30s, a group which is heavily needed in the aging and depopulating rural regions of Japan. (McKinsey and Company 2021). Digitalization and remote work could therefore be a big aspect of the future revitalization efforts of Japan’s rural areas and might play an increasing role in the coming years.

References:

Wakayama Life (n. d.), “Mainichi miru keishiki ga kirei,” https://www.wakayamagurashi.jp/totteoki_life/03/ [access July 20, 2024]

McKinsey and Company (2021), Japan Digital Agenda 2030, https:/www.digitaljapan2030.com/ [access July 12, 2024]

Christoph Barann is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Dominik Roth

Rural revitalization is a hot topic in modern societies. With declining birth rates, many developed countries are seeing their rural areas deteriorate in both population and infrastructure. While this problem is prevalent in many places, Japan is somewhat unique: Nowhere else is the problem of rural abandonment more apparent. In Japan, rural communities try to launch projects to bring life and people back to decaying towns and villages far from urban centres like Tokyo and Osaka. Many of these projects are focused on finding that one special feature, product, or other thing that will make the place stand out and attract new people.

Many of these projects and marketing efforts seem lackluster, superficial, and often end up being nothing more than pure actionism by politicians and bureaucrats. “We are the city of ceramics” or “We are the city of ink” are just a few examples of communities trying to put their hometown back on the map by choosing a label to put on it. I find it hard to believe that the attractiveness of a place can be planned at a board meeting. Japan’s rural decline won’t be solved by simple marketing campaigns. There are bigger problems at work that need to be solved in order to actually contribute to population growth and the return of people to rural areas. The lack of gender equality, extreme working conditions, low pay and many other issues should be addressed first.

And while I personally don’t believe that public marketing campaigns will solve the problem, I do appreciate that efforts are being made, especially when they are creative and different. One of these efforts is the “Emotional Bridge Project” in Gifu, realized through the hands of a single person. This person is Ogawa Ryo, better known by his artist moniker “RoamCouch”. Born in Anpachi-cho, Ryo started drawing and painting at an early age, mainly influenced by his love for manga. After graduating from high school, he started working for an advertising company, but he was dissatisfied with the job and the outlook on his life, and eventually suffered a physical breakdown. He became seriously ill and was unable to move for weeks, and with enough time to rethink what kind of life he really wanted to live, he finally decided to pursue a career as a painter (Roamcoach 2024).

Ogawa’s “Emotional Bridge Project” has been in existence since 2014, and aims to revitalize the local community of Anpachi-chō by painting murals on local buildings and structures. Although at one point he considered moving abroad, Mr. Ogawa decided to return to his hometown in Gifu to give back. Inspired by street art revitalization projects around the world, Ogawa spoke directly with the owners of various spaces and facades to create murals for free, eventually resulting in 14 works of art in Anpachi-chō. He uses stencils for his artwork, which he cuts out by hand. However, Ogawa’s style is unique because he also incorporates elements of ukiyo-e into his works, creating a blend of the ancient and the modern. His stencil art requires the utmost concentration, as the slightest mistake in the spraying and cutting process means he has to start the project all over again. According to Ogawa, his works have no message, as he simply wants viewers to enjoy his works and feel joy, which is why he often makes them easy to understand without any subliminal meaning. The project has caught the attention of locals. In an interview, Ogawa mentions how an elderly gentleman recognized him while he was spraying, and he even collected clippings of Ogawa’s work. Students often photograph the murals, and more and more people are inquiring about future locations for his murals, indicating a growing interest in his work. Ogawa sees the Emotional Bridge Project as a catalyst for tourism and a source of inspiration for the realization of dreams. Ogawa strives to convey a calm and mysterious view of the world. His murals, characterized by their beauty and sense of mysticism, contribute to the unique atmosphere of Anpachi-chō. Ogawa hopes to expand the project and convey the message that perseverance can make many dreams come true.

Will the “Emotional Bridge Project” solve problems such as rural exodus and population decline in Anpachi-chō? Probably not. I don’t think this is something that one man’s project can do. It does, however, show how one person’s efforts can impact a rural area, if only by inviting art fans on a bike ride to see all the murals. It’s a small step, but solving any big problem has to start somewhere.

References:

Jet-Black Gallery (2019), “Emotional Bridge Project】 RoamCouch ‘Take My Heart’, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFwUb3OR4fA (June 17, 2024).

Roamcoach (2024), “About”, http://roamcouch.com/about/ (June 17, 2024).

Dominik Roth is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin

by Kenny Stößel

In the 1980s, the book “Kirikirijin” by Hisashi Inoue was published in Japan. At that time, no one could have known the impact that this book would have on the entire island nation. “Kirikirijin” is about a village in northeastern Japan that went head-to-head with the Japanese government. Due to their dissatisfaction with the policies of the central government, the village decided to declare their independence and form a micronation called “Kirikirikuni”. The central government tried everything to stop the newly formed nation, with little to no success. Technical and medical advancements and procedures forbidden in Japan were made possible in Kirikirikuni, giving them leverage and support.

The book became a huge success. All over the country, about 200 towns and villages decided to declare independence as a micronation, to the extent that it was called a boom in Japan. It has to be said that this was mostly for parody reasons and not to follow in the footsteps of the book, but the efforts made were more authentic than one might have expected. For example, one of these nations was the Republic of Alcohol. Founded in the former town of Mano, now known as Sado City in Niigata Prefecture, the Republic specialized in brewing alcohol, as one might expect. The micronation quickly gained nationwide recognition and was a major factor in the popularity of micronations and the connection between them as part of the United Nations, a group of mini-independent countries throughout Japan.

Another city that “declared independence” was the city of Nihonmatsu in Fukushima Prefecture, which formed the micronation “Niko Niko Republic”. It hosted various events, established its own House of Representatives, and stamped the passports of visitors. Even now, 40 years later, the memory of the republic is still close to the hearts of its residents. At first, the declaration of independence was only for marketing purposes, to promote the town’s onsen and give it a more unique character compared to the onsen of the neighboring village. This declaration of independence gave the republic great exposure and publicity. In addition, and due to a lack of money, the existing shops were given new signs declaring them as official ministries, giving the main street the feel of a theme park. They also invented a national anthem, a constitution, and even their own passports and currency. Slowly a national pride developed, students leaving for university were celebrated as exchange students and even greeted with parades when they completed their “exchange” (Watabe 2022).

In 2006, nearly two decades after its founding, the Republic was dissolved. This was due to an aging population and the lack of success of the onsen and the Republic itself, which led to the closure of businesses in the Republic and the micronation’s inability to support itself. Despite this, the republic is still remembered by its citizens, and many memorabilia such as signs, flags, and the self-created currency can be found all over the city. In 2021, 15 years after the Republic’s end, the town converted an old souvenir shop into the official Museum of the Republic of Niko Niko to offer the opportunity to relive and experience the events and charm of that time. Another reason for the new museum is the hope to raise awareness of the once cherished republic and to revive it. It can be said that even though the Republic has almost no online presence, it has achieved its goal of raising awareness, as people who attended Republic events as a child are beginning to get involved as organizers of new events, and even people younger than the Republic itself are advocating for the independent of Niko Niko Republic today. Despite these efforts, those involved in the revitalization efforts know that the Republic will never be the same. The goal is to rebuild the Republic in the old way, and then to create a newer and better place. Another goal of the revival of Niko Niko Republic is to provide inspiration for the younger generation, because the future of the town rests on their shoulders. (Watabe 2022).

The declaration of independence from Japan and the traction the town received from this action generated great revenue. Beginning with an attempt to make their onsen unique, a strong sense of “national pride” has developed through several generations and is contagious even to the new generations and young people long for a nation they barely know. With a successful revival of Niko Niko Republic, the town would be able to offer a unique form of rural tourism. This might help to counteract depopulation and economic decline in the area.

Reference:

Watabe, Akiko (2022), “Fukushima-ken Nihonmatsu: NikoNiko Kyōwakoku,” Turns 51: 64–69.

Kenny Stößel is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.

by Jasper Domanowski

Rural outmigration is a perennial issue in Japan as the rural population ages and young people move to the cities. To combat this, both the Japanese central government and local governments are promoting projects to attract urban dwellers to move to rural areas and help ‘revitalize the countryside’. Previous studies on ijūsha (urban-rural migrants) have covered a variety of strategies and incentives used to promote this goal. A previous post on this blog, “Japan’s transnational countryside” by Cornelia Reiher, points out that there are certain experiences that many people who choose to leave the city for a rural life have in common, such as having experienced life and cultures outside of Japan. These experiences may contribute to the ijūsha‘s decision to move to the countryside, whether in the hope of contributing to the revitalization of rural areas or to escape the rigid structures of Japanese society. I would like to offer another example to show the relevance of the mobility of urban-rural migrants in Japan.

In 2023 I spent ten months in Japan on a working holiday. After three months of teaching in the middle of Tokyo, I was longing to get out of the city for a while. In June 2023, my search for a rural host family led me to one of Okinawa’s southern islands, where I stayed with a lovely couple and their pre-school son for two and a half weeks. My host family ran a small izakaya and inn, one of only a handful on the entire island, and every evening the designated rooms filled with customers who greeted them like old friends. During the day, local parents sometimes stopped by to drop off friends of my host family’s son, and stayed for a while to chat while the kids played in the yard. The main waitress was Ami, a young woman my age who had left her unfulfilling job and failing relationship in Tokyo to work full-time at the izakaya for a year to find herself and figure out what she wanted in life. She said she wanted to travel to Australia after that, but could see herself settling down on the island in a few years’ time.

The story of my host mother, Yumiko, is somewhat typical of that of an ijūsha: She told me that she was born and raised in Saitama in a typical Japanese family, with her parents working in Tokyo. She had spent a year abroad in Canada (making her the only fluent English speaker around), although she returned to Saitama for university. There she made friends with a girl from Okinawa and was invited to spend the next school holidays there. She told me that she immediately fell in love with the island. It became her favourite place to go on holiday, and after that first visit she returned whenever she could. It was on one of these visits that she met her future husband through mutual friends. They kept in touch after the holiday, made easier by the fact that he also lived in Saitama, not far from her home. While they were dating, they visited the island together many times, and with each visit, the feeling they both shared grew stronger: they wanted to leave the city and live on the island permanently. Neither was happy with the standardised life they were ‘supposed’ to lead as Japanese citizens, especially Yumiko, who had experienced such a different way of life during her time abroad. This was compounded by the fact that they already did not fit the mould: they had married “too late” and had no children (yet). So they started saving money and preparing for their big move. The island is small, and thanks to their frequent visits – often several times a year – they had made connections with locals who were happy to help them organise and settle in.

Despite this help, it was difficult at first. The buildings on the land they bought needed serious work to make them not only habitable but also weatherproof. Building materials were scarce on the island and had to be brought in by ferry. They did most of the work themselves, with the help and guidance of a few local men who had decades of experience building and repairing houses on the island. Yumiko’s husband often had to travel back to Tokyo for extended periods of time to work in his office, and could not give up his job while their new home was still unfinished. But the hardship was worth it, she told me. They opened the izakaya and inn as they had hoped, allowing her husband to leave his office job in Tokyo for good. In 2018, they had their son, born in the hospital across the island and raised on the island with half a dozen other children.

Nowadays, Yumiko still keeps the connection to life outside Japan alive, by allowing people like me – those hoping to experience Japan outside of Tokyo and away from tourist spots – to live with their family for a few weeks. Even without travelling abroad, the entire family is in frequent exchange with diverse and international perspectives. Yumiko greatly valued how her time spent away from Japan had given her a new perspective on life. She hopes that the contact to foreigners like me will inspire a similar mindset in her son – to allow him to choose the direction of his life freely, less restricted by societal expectations. While of course merely anecdotal evidence, I believe Yumiko’s story greatly speaks for the importance of a person’s history of mobility when it comes to ijūsha’s and their motivations for moving to the countryside.

Jasper Domanowski  is a student in the BA program in Japanese Studies at the Freie Universität Berlin.