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
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
A promotional video about Takigahara farm from 2023
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In rural Japan, life often revolves around exchange, reciprocity, and community support. These values profoundly influence the way people live and interact, especially among urban-rural migrants. This blog post explores how these values are manifested through a seemingly ordinary object-a used television found in the home of one of my research participants in Buzen. By examining the history of this TV, I uncover how such objects symbolize broader patterns of reciprocity and sustainability among urban-rural migrants.
Hitomi, 43, originally from Kitakyūshū, moved to Buzen five years ago, shortly after the birth of her third daughter. After living in China, New Zealand, Singapore, the UK and Colombia, she now works as a translator, specializing in Chinese and English. Her family includes her Colombian husband and three daughters. She moved to live with her parents to help care for her grandmother, who suffered from dementia. This move also provided much needed support for her daughters while her husband remained in Colombia. Hitomi’s life is deeply rooted in the values of sharing and helping others, which is vividly illustrated by an object in her home. On my first visit to her home, I noticed a large, 60-inch flat-screen TV in the corner of the living area that doubles as the kitchen and family room. “That’s a big TV!” I said, and Hitomi replied, “Yeah, but it’s broken!” A friend had given her the TV when she moved into her rental house. “I still have to find the time and money to get it fixed,” Hitomi said. When I visited again a few months later, I saw that the room had been rearranged, with the TV now placed in front of the sofa. “Oh, so you finally fixed it!” I exclaimed. Hitomi laughed and said, “No, not yet. She explained that she didn’t want to throw it away because it was a gift from a friend and because “it’s a waste (mottainai); it could still be fixed!”
Exchange, reciprocity, mutual support and sharing are at the heart of Hitomi’s life. Hitomi connects effortlessly with people from all walks of life. Her life is a rich tapestry of relationships, and her genuine curiosity about others drives her to offer support and empathy whenever needed. I saw this in action when she helped a new JET participant from the UK find an apartment, shared details about a friend’s pastry class, and even took her daughter’s friend home from school for weeks at a time to help her mother, who had just given birth. “I’ve traveled and lived alone in many places,” Hitomi told me, “and if it weren’t for the help I received from so many people, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Helping you and others is my way of giving back some of that support to the universe.” In this context, the broken TV in Hitomi’s house has a special significance. It’s more than just a piece of furniture; it symbolizes her gratitude to the people in her life and reflects her commitment to a life rooted in interconnectedness and reciprocity. When Hitomi and her three daughters had just moved into their new home, the television was an unexpected and much appreciated gift. Given the expense of moving and settling into a new place, buying a TV wasn’t on her radar. It now sits prominently in her living room, a constant reminder of Hitomi’s social relationships built on sharing and mutual support.
During my visits, I noticed that Hitomi had moved the television from one place to another while she waited for it to be repaired. This in-between state, in which the TV no longer works but still has meaning, is a symbol of Hitomi’s commitment to a life centered on support, community, and sustainability, similar to many other migrants I met. The secondhand TV also underscores a more general trend that I observed among many people during my fieldwork. Urban migrants often rely on second-hand items, such as furniture and tools, and live a lifestyle focused on reuse and sustainability. This practice is also consistent with a deeper commitment to environmental awareness. Hitomi’s living room, a mix of old and new furniture, including the TV, sofa bed and dining table – all gifts from friends – exemplifies this trend. In this context, where secondhand items are both a necessity and a choice, these objects represent more than just sustainability. These objects, whether brought in from the city or purchased new, embody the relationships and exchanges between their former and new owners, forming a mosaic of objects and social relations, each with its own story.
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 (akiyabanku). This makes it easy for individuals and organizations interested in buying a house to find and contact the owners (Kawagoe City 2023).
Some traditional houses in Kawagoe are being put to new use
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).
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).
