by Josko Kozic

Hello to all from the hot and humid Yabu Valley, located in Hyogo Prefecture. Almost a year has passed since my last post in this beautiful blog, and this time I am happy to share with you my latest report of an outreach in the field.

As a doctoral student in religious studies, I am researching contemporary mountain worship and ascetic training (called shugendō) with a focus on rural areas off the beaten path. This time I would like to introduce you to a very unusual priest I met while visiting Hyogo Prefecture, a priest who lives and serves for both spiritual concerns and everyday life.

I don’t usually discuss or even mention the pandemic in my research, as my topic is different, but more and more I realized how much of an impact this topic had on both my research conditions and the content itself. Unfortunately, as the number of infections in Japan continues to rise, many important events and gatherings at temples and sacred sites are being cancelled one after another. So being in Japan does not necessarily mean automatically being “on the ground” and able to conduct participant observations, as one might think. 

In these hesitant times, however, I came across a beautiful Buddhist temple on the sacred Mt. Myōken in the small, lush green town of Yabu. After enjoying the quiet and solemn atmosphere of the place, a relatively young priest came by to greet me warmly and show me the temple’s main shrines, including rare Buddhist statues. It was Dr. Morita Ryushin[1], who serves both as the temple’s head priest and as the director of the local Nikko clinic in the town of Yabu, from where he provides community-level medical care. After I introduced myself to Dr. (or priest) Morita and had a good conversation for the first time, we knew we wanted to meet again. However, it took another year before we finally met again during the current season of O-bon, the prayerful and devotional festival of the dead. During this time, many people return to their (often rural) hometowns to spend time with their families.

Dr. Morita cares daily for patients struggling with corona infections and other illnesses, and says that even during the O-bon festival, he is now unable to receive his community members and even his own family. His gentle way of caring for his hometown and its residents, both as a doctor and as a Buddhist priest, makes him special to me in many ways. That’s why I appreciate his kind invitation from the day before even more. During our conversation, he also told me how much the succession of a Buddhist temple is declining in the countryside, and that temples in his childhood were usually seen as the center of a local community.

The study of Japanese religions can be so diverse, both in terms of topics and approaches. Many international scholars have recently been conducting research on current and important topics such as the looting of ancient Buddhist statues in rural temples and the handling (or recycling) of valuable shrines in rural temples. The importance and diversity of religious institutions, actors, and activities as vehicles of local community can be explored from many different angles, making it a fascinating research topic.

Josko Kozic (MA) moved to Japan five years ago after graduating in Japanese & Southeast Asian Studies at Goethe University in his hometown Frankfurt. He currently resides in Yokohama while working on his PhD thesis about contemporary Shugendo (a Japanese religious tradition). He is affiliated with the faculty of Religious studies at Heidelberg University.

[1]
There is a short documentary in Japanese, introducing Dr. Morita: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2lODJjgajRU

by Maritchu Durand

When the summer heat strikes the concrete of the city, we all look for a way to cool off, physically and mentally. Unlike Lynn, who’s strategy to find some freshness is to picture snowy landscapes, I tend to look for a cool and shady spot in the park or near a lake, with a good book to help me through the heat waves. This time, I took on a Japanese book that had been lying in my bookshelf for some time now: Kamusari Nānā Nichijō by Miura Shion [1].

Yūki is a young man from Tokyo who just graduated high school. Having no plans whatsoever of going to college or looking for a fulltime job after school, he gets forced by his mother and teacher to join a government program training young Japanese in the lumber industry. He is transferred to the village of Kamusari in the mountainous countryside, where he will spend a year as an intern for the lumber industry. After a day long journey on local trains, he arrives at a place with no phone reception that is full of insects and locals with a thick accent. After getting basic training, he is sent to the historical center of Kamusari at the foot of the mountains, where he will work for Seiichi-san, the village head who owns most of the woodland in the area.

Throughout the book, I followed Yūki’s journey learning all about the art and tradition of the lumber industry. He is accompanied by his friendly team members: the boasting, loud and impulsive Yoki, a young man with bleached hair living with his wife and grandmother with whom Yūki moves in; the serious and calm team leader Seiichi-san; and the two other members with thick Kamusari dialects Iwao-san and Saburo-san. The word ‘nā nā’ being the most prominent expression of the local dialect, of which Yūki will learn the different meanings throughout his stay. For example, why it might describe a slow and peaceful way of living, it can also mean ‘this is really serious’.

Kamusari Nānā Nichijō is not only about the hard work of Japanese lumberjacks in the cool shadows of the high rising suki over the mountain peaks. It is also a journey alongside a young man who learns about rejection, ostracization and finally acceptance by the locals, about traditions, peculiar festivals and beliefs, about life in a small, close and rather remote community.

While the novel does not make a pass on the unavoidable love story and the exaggerated rough representation of the rural community, the portrayal of the omnipresent nature that almost becomes a character in itself, the likeable characters and the persevering Yūki made me want to be part of this community although it is threatened by the problems we all know: outmigration, an aging population and a low birthrate.

At first, this very romanticized and caricatural portrayal of rural Japan first made me think: yet another representation of furusato. But reading on, I got attached to the characters and caught myself daydreaming about climbing on the high trees and looking over the morning mists of the mountains of Kamusari. I realized how powerful a novel can be and how much potential it carries. No wonder this book was turned into a movie[1] two years later. Although the plot has been slightly modified, the message remains the same: it is a strong promotion of life in the countryside and gives a positive image of a rural community in Japan. For Yūki who was lost in the big city without strong connections or attachments, finding a home and a family in rural Japan made him grow and find some sense in his life, entering adulthood.

I will avoid spoilers and will not say if Yūki will decide to stay or not after one year in Kamusari. On a last note, however, when reading the credits at the end of the movie, I was surprised to see that special thanks were addressed to the MAFF, the Ministry of Forestry and Agriculture. Beyond concrete political measures and schemes to promote urban-rural migration, I can understand why this type of media is considered by the ministry as a great addition to its efforts to attract young people to rural Japan.

References

[1]
Miura, Shion (2012): Kamusari Nānā Nichijō [the ‘nana’ daily life in Kamusari], Tokuma Shoten.

[2]
Yaguchi, Shinobu (director) (2014): Wood Job! [Film], Japan: Toho.

The summer term ends in Berlin and we will go on a vacation. We will be back with more posts about rural Japan on August 19. Have a great summer!

by Marius Palz

When riding your car along the east coast of Nago City you will pass several small villages that lie north of Cape Henoko, a place that became mostly known for the ongoing construction of a new military facility, yet another one of many American bases that are cramped together on the small island of Okinawa. The small villages north of Henoko are what I consider my field site. While Henoko has been the focus of many academic and newspaper articles, not much attention has been paid to these small villages in the north, although they are also affected by the controversial base construction. They are also interesting to look at from the perspective of urban-rural migration.

Passing through these villages, you will see the turquoise waters of the inō (inner reef section) on the one side and the green mountains of the yanbaru (forested area of northern Okinawa Main Island) on the other. It is a truly idyllic place, but you will also see many abandoned houses similar to those in other parts of Japan. There are several reasons for the population decline over the last decades, some of which I want to address here.

The area of Nago’s east coast is called Kushi, which invites a play on words in the local language: “Kushi wa kushi ni natteiru”. The first kushi in the sentence refers to the area while the second one means “last” or “behind” in Uchināguchi (the language of Okinawa Main Island). “Kushi comes last” is a common saying among those who live here, referring to the late introduction and poor maintenance of what is considered essential infrastructures like water, roads, coastal armouring and internet. Compared to the urban southern part of Okinawa Island, Nago City is already considered underdeveloped, especially with regard to the availability of jobs for young people. The villages of Kushi, however, could be seen as the periphery of the periphery. The number of schools along Nago’s east coast declined drastically over the last decades leaving the villages north of Cape Henoko with one facility that combines elementary and junior high school as well as one senior high school. With only a couple of job options, such as local schools, roadside shops or the local fisheries association, many young people decided to leave their home villages to build up a life in the urban south or in major cities of mainland Japan.

Many have left this beautiful place, but they did not give up on their inherited property, which poses another problem for the villages: even though there are multiple abandoned houses, newcomers that would like to live in this remote place cannot move in. My interlocutors explained to me the reasons for this: Okinawa has a strong tradition of ancestral worship, which is represented by the family altar, normally located in the house of the oldest son. Moving the family altar is extremely costly because ritual specialists have to get involved. Moving it would also break the connection between the family and the ground passed on over generations. Therefor most people leave the family altar behind when moving to the city and visit it during days of worship. The presence of the family altar makes it impossible to sell the property or rent it out to strangers. To be able to do so consent within the family must be obtained, which is difficult since Okinawan families tend to be very big. Instead of renting or selling, some families prefer to tear down the house and construct little concrete huts to house the family altar.  

Among those who stay in the villages of Kushi, some decided to work on the base construction site. Despite massive protests against the project that have been going on for over two decades now, the Japanese government insists on Henoko being the only possible location to host the base. Of course, the construction generates jobs, but it also comes with severe environmental consequences as well as noise pollution and possible accidents in the future, leaving those who depend on an income from base construction with mixed feelings.

Meanwhile, some of the villages still manage to attract urban migrants despite all the problems mentioned above. The combination of clear waters and forested hills make Kushi an attractive area for those in search of an alternative to Naha, Tokyo or Osaka and collective village activities create a sense of belonging. Especially those places that emphasize communal work and festivities attract new people. The Covid-19 pandemic, however, made these activities more difficult. Formerly harvest festivals, communal dances, sports events, collective village maintenance and barbecues on the neighbour’s porch were good occasions for newcomers and long-time residents to mingle. It is hard to build up ties when all of these events get cancelled year after year.

Marius Palz is a member of the ERC-funded “Whales of Power” research project and a PhD candidate at the Department of Culture Studies and Oriental Languages (IKOS) at the University of Oslo. After having worked with members of the Ainu community in Hokkaidō and Tōkyō for his Masters, he is currently writing his dissertation on “Human-Dugong Relations and Environmental Activism in the Ryūkyū Archipelago.” As an anthropologist of Japan, he is not only interested in minority-state relations, but also multispecies and extinction studies. He conducted eight months of fieldwork in Okinawa during 2021, most of which he stayed in the Kushi area.

by Johannes Wilhelm

It is the end of February 2020. From my wooden house at the southern foot of the inner volcanic cone of the huge caldera of Aso (Kumamoto Prefecture), I am heading for Tokyo, where I will give a lecture on the “Cowboys of Aso”. Before departure, I check the latest mails. The organizer mails that in view of the beginning pandemic and in agreement with the Japanese authorities all events at the institute have to be cancelled at short notice. Well! I stoically took note of the decision, but on the plane the sense of my outward and return flight seemed quite absurd. After a few days, I was back at the volcano, while at the first shopping in the only supermarket of Minamiaso, surprisingly, neither official trash bags, nor toilet paper was to be found: everything bought empty. I asked my relatives and friends in Tokyo and elsewhere if this was also the case there, but they were all surprised, because everything was still available. The following week, however, some of them came forward and told me that a run on toilet paper had now also begun in the other major cities of Japan. Then – about two weeks after Aso – I read in the foreign media that, in addition to toilet paper, noodles were also becoming scarce. At that time I remembered the lyrics of a song by the German band Tocotronic about the new strangeness, which opened up to me like the discovery of a new semiotic continent … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZweXZqoV7nc&ab_channel=OMhA

Minamiaso thus became a trendsetter in terms of social phenomena in the pandemic, at least as far as toilet paper was concerned. And the trash bag shortage soon died down, too. Later, other oddities in the countryside came to light, such as alcohol dealers who out of the blue marketed their whiskey or shochū as disinfectants, or some greenies trying to sell overpriced masks of dubious origin at moon prices, but I want to focus on other things in this text.

Many people with an affinity for Japan are probably aware that the Aso region is one of the main tourist attractions on Kyūshū Island. It occupies a correspondingly prominent role in local economic life, although in my opinion the main pillars of the economy are the welfare sector (keyword: aging) in addition to agricultural production. An important fact is that the working life of many people in Aso consists of several parts. For example, many rely on their land holdings to pursue a primary activity such as cattle raising or rice cultivation, while also pursuing a few side jobs, such as cleaning public baths in the evenings or producing handicrafts such as embroidery, woodwork or pottery offered at michi no eki or other outlets. Full-time jobs are only those in the administration of the city hall or government offices and schools as well as full-time positions in production facilities in the industry. The structure of the tourism sector is similarly diverse. The domestic tourists, but mainly those visiting from abroad, usually only see the hotels, restaurants or inns, i.e. the superficial manifestations of the industry with their many employees, but behind them there is a whole range of sub-enterprises, such as dry cleaners for bed linen.

Just a couple of weeks before the so-called “Golden Week”, it was decided that all public baths and the onsen thermal baths, which are extremely popular among tourists, would be closed for an indefinite period. Lodgings and restaurants were also ordered by local authorities to take a rest period. When I went to the nearest dry cleaning business in May to prepare my winter clothes for proper storage over the humid summer, I was told that from now on the business would only run on Saturdays every fortnight and only a quarter of the staff – mainly full-time employees – would still be present, as there was no demand in the light of the closed lodges. 

… to be continued …

Johannes Wilhelm is an independent researcher and is affiliated with Vienna University. His main studies focus on the relationship between nature and society. His interests include fisheries, pastures in mountainous regions, and rural areas as much as general phenomena in society such as radicalism, migration and social vulnerability.

by Lynn Ng

As a child, whenever I complained about Singapore’s horrible heat and humidity, my parents would show me pictures of snowscapes. “Mind over matter,” they always said. I never believed in the “science” behind my parents’ actions, because those pictures only ever made me feel envious of people who do not live in the tropics and never any cooler than before. Yet, this week as I sweat through yet another T-shirt in Berlin, I decided to look up the photographs of my time in snowy Hokkaido for comfort in this hot time. Along with this decision came a strong nostalgia for this region I once called home.

In 2015, I transplanted myself from tropical sunny Singapore to a rural town that buries itself in over 200cm of snow every winter. I enjoyed the snow – the softness and refreshing cold that comes with it. But more than snow, I relished the quiet rurality. Rural Japan, and especially rural Hokkaido, is beautiful. Like most urbanites in rural Japan, I arrived with rose-tinted glasses. Everything in the countryside was wonderful – the untouched nature, the friendly people, the countless cheap hotsprings… the list goes on.

Over the years, I would notice how tinted these glasses were for rural Hokkaido is of course not without its problems. There were moments when I wanted to catch a movie in the theaters only to realize the nearest showing was in a city two hours away. The train there would arrive at either 8 a.m. or 4 p.m., or would be cancelled in case of snow. Such trivialities aside, I saw also the underutilized theme parks and landmarks built with private funds during the bubble or supported by government funds for rural revitalization. Many local residents complained to me that these projects were a waste of money since no one goes there, and yet these parks were some of my favorite places to visit for the additional quietness.

Let us also not forget that rural Hokkaido also has plenty of snow, and with it comes the art of yukikaki (snow shoveling) that is the pride of Hokkaidoians – the Dosanko. Much like household chores, yukikaki is a mundane activity many Dosankos do especially in the wee hours of the morning. Dosankos have repeatedly told me that yukikaki was a means of boosting work ethic and instilling discipline in children. I once met a family who chose to start a farm in Hokkaido because they thought it would instill the best work ethic in their children – something urban cities or other rural places in Japan could not offer because of the extra activity of yukikaki. For three years, I simply found yukikaki a chore.

Perhaps I never had good discipline to begin with, nor particularly strong work ethics by Japanese standards. Or was it because I never did yukikaki and thus have no discipline? Which came first? And for this, every winter I was reminded of being the “outsider.”

Indeed, rural Japan and rural Hokkaido carries with it its own set of problems. As I reminisce about the goods and bads of my three years in there, I can only proudly say that I regretted nothing of it. Perhaps my glasses are still rose-tinted till today, or perhaps there is something truly enticing about rural Hokkaido that one cannot simply let go of despite all of its problems.

by Shilla Lee

Recent studies on regional revitalization movements in Japan have explored various local initiatives to mobilize the urban population to rural areas (Klien 2020; Manzenreiter et al. 2020). While they provide us with rich contexts, the discussions seem to revolve around an essentially anthropocentric account of regional sustainability. I want to bring attention to my rough ideas about a new perspective to scrutinize the social implication of regional revitalization movements in Japan: to broaden our discussions beyond the human-human domain by exploring problems of depopulation within the wider panorama of human-wild animal (pestilence) relations.

There have been growing cases of wildlife damage in depopulating regions across the globe. Let me briefly mention an article published by The Guardian in January 2021 (Flyn 2021). It talks about how declining fertility rates have led to serious social problems in wealthy countries like Germany and Japan. However, rather than focusing on issues of birth rate per se, the discussion develops into changing human-animal relations in scarcely populated regions. Highlighting a case of akiya (empty house) in Japan, the article directs our attention to how abandoned farms and gardens are reclaimed by wild animals due to an absence of human existence and how we should be more serious about the contrasting state of shrinking human population and prospering wildlife.

In this context, I suggest that we expand our notion of regional revitalization to non-human beings and question whether regional ‘re’vitalization also implies a power ‘re’distribution between humans and wild animals. When discussing rural social problems such as depopulation, aging, and declining local economy, they are dealt with as issues of human society, precluding social and physical spaces shared (or fought over) with non-human beings. We need to think about whether various strategies that attempt to pull in (attract) the human population such as migrants, tourists, and foreign workers to rural regions also pushes away wild animals that are wandering around once human-dominated habitats. As recent studies on human-wild animal (pestilence) relations show (Enari 2021; Enari and Tsunoda 2017; Tsunoda and Enari 2020), remote village communities lack human forces or community spirits to protect crops from wild animal damage and tensions rising from such conflicts lead to increasing practices of wildlife pestilence to control their population.

The prosperity of wild animals beyond human control “can appear a threatening development that points to the retrenchment of human society rather than a benign revival of nature” (Knight 2003:236). Moreover, at a municipal level, increasing conflicts with wild animals not only create economic damages but also undesirable images of rural livelihood, thereby, affecting key strategies of regional revitalization policies that focus on domestic tourism and urban-rural migration. As Knight points out “the impact of the wildlife pest is not confined to the material damage it causes to individual farmers and foresters but extends to its negative symbolism vis-a-vis the community as a whole” (2003:237). As much as rural areas are relying on incoming tourists and migrants for their economic and social sustainability, any source of negative images poses challenges. In this sense, regional revitalization is not only a matter of increasing the human population but also of adjusting human-wildlife relations.

Let me briefly illustrate Wildlife Damage Forum that was held in Tamba Sasayama during my fieldwork in 2018-2019. One of the main actors that dealt with problems concerning wildlife damage in the region was an NPO named Satomon. According to what is written on their official webpage, their key concern is the “wildlife pestilence problem” (jyūgai mondai) by monkeys, deers and wild boars that threatens a Satoyama lifestyle. They argue that wildlife damage takes away the joys of harvesting by referring to young people who move to rural areas and then give up their dreams of living a peaceful country life: “Young migrants who are fascinated by the countryside and relocated to work on farms also said, ‘I cannot work the fields in such a place’ and are giving up their dreams and leaving the villages” (nōson ni miryoku o kanji, ijūshite shinki shūnō shita wakamono mo,” konna tokoro de nōgyō wa dekinai” to yume o akiramete mura o satteiku). It is in this context that Satomon suggests what they call the “wildlife pestilence measure” (jyūgai taisaku) and organizes Wildlife Damage Forum as one of their key initiatives. 

An event for the year 2019 was held on a cold day in December in a shimin sentā (citizen center) in Tamba Sasayama. Following an opening speech by the mayor, representatives of various local organizations addressed their ideas to tackle the growing damage by wild animals. A group of social scientists first pitched a behavioral observation of wild boars in the region to examine what kind of damage prevention mechanisms would work. The next speaker demonstrated how the aging community and wild animal damage should be thought of together. Lastly, a group of local middle school students presented a school club activity that produces coin purses from leathers of wild deers. What I found interesting was how they all began with an emphasis on the importance of living with wild animals, however, sought co-existence through curtailing the population growth of the latter. For instance, the business idea presented by the middle school students to rethink human-wild animal conflicts as a way to make profits from the latter was premised on the legitimacy of wildlife hunting and other measures to eradicate the overpopulation of deers. Similar ideas were found in local restaurants that promoted wild boar meats as a local delicacy and a wild meat processing business started by a recent urban-rural migrant. Wild animal damage was being cope by residents by reframing it as a source of economic prosperities and attractive elements of the region. 

References

Enari, Hiroto. 2021. “Human-Macaque Conflicts in Shrinking Communities: Recent Achievements and Challenges in Problem Solving in Modern Japan.” Mammal Study 46 (2): 115–30.

Enari, Hiroto, and Hiroshi Tsunoda. 2017. “Emerging Wildlife Issues in an Age of Large-Scale Human Depopulation—Introduction.” Wildlife and Human Society 5 (1): 1–3.

Flyn, Cal. 2021. “As Birth Rates Fall, Animals Prowl in Our Abandoned ‘Ghost Villages.’” The Guardian, January 24, 2021.

Klien, Susanne. 2020. Urban Migrants in Rural Japan: Between Agency and Anomie in a Post-Growth Society. State University of New York Press Albany.

Knight, John. 2003. Waiting for Wolves in Japan: An Anthropological Study of People-Wildlife Relations. Oxford University Press.

Manzenreiter, Wolfram, Ralph Lützeler, and Sebastian Polak-Rottman. 2020. Japan’s New Ruralities: Coping with Decline in the Periphery. Routledge.

Tsunoda, Hiroshi, and Hiroto Enari. 2020. “A Strategy for Wildlife Management in Depopulating Rural Areas of Japan.” Conservation Biology 34 (4): 819–28.

Shilla Lee is a PhD candidate at Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle, Germany. Her research focuses on the notion of rurality and creativity in regional revitalization practices and the cooperative activities of traditional craftsmen in Japan.

by Ngo Tu Thanh (Frank Tu)

The venues of policy formulation are a labyrinth of actors, negotiations, calculations, and conflicting interests. Rural revitalization policies are no exception.  Interested in finding out how rural revitalization policies are made, and moreover, how policy actors operate behind the scenes, I knew I would need visit Nagatachō – Japan’s political center.  

On 08 June 2022, I was very fortunate to meet with a veteran who has been navigating politics in Nagatachō for more than 20 years. He is an ideal research participant whom I really wished to interview: after finishing his PhD in Urban Planning at an Ivy League institution, he became a Chief Policy Secretary (kokkai giin seisaku tantō hisho) for several members of the House of Representatives (Shūgiin) and the House of Councilors (Sangiin). In the past, he once ran for the House of Representatives and has considered running for mayor. After losing his parliamentary bid, he decided to work in academia and advocacy. He is now a researcher at a think tank for the LDP, a public policy consultant, and a professor in urban planning. Having had experience in both the Diet, advocacy, and academia, he did not hesitate to speak his mind freely and was able to get down to the nitty-gritty of politics.

I arrived in Nagatachō, where my research participant’s advocacy organization is located. There, I found myself standing in front of a big four-story building. Located within one kilometer from our meeting place are some of the most crucial institutions where rural policies (among others) are made: the National Diet (Kokkai), the Cabinet Office (Naikakufu), the headquarters of the Liberal Democratic Party (Jiyūminshutō), the headquarters of the National Governors’ Association (Zenkoku Chijikai), the headquarters of the National Mayors Association (Zenkoku Shichōkai), the National Association of Chairmen of Prefectural Assemblies (Zenkoku Todōfuken Gikai Gichōkai) and the National Association of the Chairpersons of Town and Village Assemblies (Zenkoku Chōsongikai Gichōkai). The presence of police officers and guards everywhere further evoked my anxiety. After a few seconds of hesitation, I took a deep breath and entered the building.

An employee opened the door and guided me to the couch where my research participant was sitting. After greeting each other, I followed him to a spacious conference room on the top floor, where I conducted the interview. On our way I saw officers in black suits rushing around, people whispering softly to each other in different corners, and some cautiously making phone calls by the window. My interview partner shared with me that his organization accommodates many former national and local politicians, ambassadors and governmental officials. Advocacy organizations like this are part of the intriguingly complicated policymaking process, which involves the national government, the national Diet, local governments, local assemblies, and private organizations.

According to my research participant, first, revitalization policies are drafted by relevant ministries (i.e., Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communication; Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry; Ministry of Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism). Then, the policies are compiled by the Headquarters for Regional Revitalization, which is located in the Cabinet Office. The Headquarters for Regional Revitalization is where officials from relevant ministries meet and discuss their responsibilities and jurisdiction.

At the same time, the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), also has its partisan counterparts of the Cabinet Office and the Headquarters for Regional Revitalization, namely the Policy Research Council (Seimu Chōsakai) and the Headquarters for Overcoming Population Decline and Regional Revitalization (Chihō Sōsei Jikō Tōgō Honbu). Politicians belonging to this LDP’s organ will voice their desires to influence the plans proposed by the Cabinet Office and relevant ministries. They will push for what is beneficial to their constituencies such as IT promotion, or attracting young people to the countryside.

Besides, associations that represent prefectures and municipalities also actively lobby for policies in their favor. The National Governors’ Association, the Headquarters of the National Mayors Association, the National Association of Chairmen of Prefectural Assemblies, and the National Association of the Chairpersons of Town and Village Assemblies. These associations present proposals (teigensho) that favor their localities at large.

Finally, there are also advocacy organizations that work for the interests of private businesses. For instance, the Japan Business Federation (Keidanren) or my research participant’s organization often lobby for clients who want national and/or local governments to adopt favorable policies. Hence, in addition to lobbying activities in Nagatachō, his organization also reaches out to  local governments all over Japan. In particular, such advocacy organizations often formulate their own proposals and meet with relevant politicians. My interview partner asserted that while not always successful, private advocacy organizations do have great sway in policymaking.

After all these behind-the-scenes constant interactions, negotiations, lobbying and pressuring between myriads of actors, the official rural revitalization policies are decided on. As complicated as it sounds, this interview has intrigued me greatly and prompted me to proceed to the next stage of my research – the prefectural and municipal levels, which I am now very much looking forward to.

by Cornelia Reiher

Although I could not go to Japan during the Covid-19 pandemic, I came across and learned about rural Japan in unexpected places. When interviewing Midori (pseudonym), a Japanese chef in Berlin for my project on Berlin’s Japanese foodscapes in summer 2021, she introduced herself as Yusuhara Future Design Ambassador (Yusuhara mirai taishi) and gave me a name card with her name and that title on one side (in English) and some basic information about Yusuhara, a small town in Kochi Prefecture in Shikoku on the back (in Japanese). The name card also stated that with this meishi I could receive a 500 JPY discount when entering the hot springs in Yusuhara. I was surprised about this coincidence and also because I had never heard about Future Design Ambassadors.

Midori was born in Kochi in Shikoku, but she has never lived in Yusuhara. Her best friend is from Yusuhara and the first time she went there was for her friend’s grandmother’s funeral. She was surprised and moved by the warm welcome and cordial atmosphere at the funeral that was unlike all the other funerals she had attended to this point. Everybody was nice to her although she did not know anyone except her friend. After this event she regularly returned to Yusuhara and got to know many people. She made many friends and was impressed by their kindness and the beautiful nature. After she had moved to Germany, she brought friends from abroad to Yusuhara whenever she returned to Shikoku.

As Yusuhara’s slogan is “Seikai to tsunagarou!” (connect with the world) and because Midori had become acquainted with the mayor, in 2020, the townhall contacted her and asked her if she wanted to promote Yusuhara in Germany as a mirai taishi. She submitted her CV and received the meishi she gave me when we first met. And she is not the only mirai taishi. Many volunteers like her were asked to spread information about Yusuhara in other parts of the world. The activities are not defined and due to the Corona-19 pandemic Midori mainly distributed tourism and information brochures to people interested in Japan. Once a year, Yusuhara’s town hall sends cookies and other small presents, mainly food products, she gives to people interested in Yusuhara. In the future, Midori plans onsite events to introduce Yusuhara to a larger audience and wants to invite young people from Yusuhara to Berlin.

I received a tourist map in English promoting Yusuhara as “the town above the clouds”, postcards with pictures of beautiful scenery and a Japanese brochure for people interested in moving to Yusuhara. This brochure was strikingly similar to others I have picked up in other places in Japan. It showed pictures of happy children and families enjoying outdoor activities in beautiful scenery, images of the four seasons and local festivals. It also introduced U and I turn migrants and their experiences. The brochure also presents support schemes for child rearing, finding housing and for the renovation of vacant houses (akiya). It also promotes the medical infrastructure in Yusuhara. The target groups for in-migration into Yusuhara, according to the information material I received, are young people and families with children. Migrants under the age of 40 receive financial support for building or renovating a house and families receive all sorts of discounts for education, housing and child care.

Yusuhara is known as a rather successful example of rural revitalization and as particularly environmentally friendly [1]. The famous architect Kuma Kengo designed several buildings in the town, including the library, a welfare center, a hotel, a gallery and the town hall. Thus, Yusuhara has become a destination for fans of architecture [2] and an eco-model city that launched a low carbon initiative, uses renewable energies like wind and biomass and stresses the coexistence with the surrounding forests [3]. This does not only become visible in Kuma Kengo’s wood architecture, but also in the promotion of forest therapy. Several therapy roads promise relaxing effects of forests in Yusuhara for “people living in the modern times”. This has not only attracted tourists and newcomers, but also shows how small rural communities in Japan can be innovative, sustainable and transnational, all at the same time.

References

[1]
Beyer, Vicky L. (2020), Yusuhara: the eco-friendly traditional mountain town, https://jigsaw-japan.com/2020/02/12/yusuhara-the-eco-friendly-traditional-mountain-town/

[2]
Presser, Brandon (2019), This Japanese Town Has Become a Secret Destination for Architecture Buffs, https://www.cntraveler.com/story/this-japanese-town-has-become-a-secret-destination-for-architecture-buffs

[3]
Yusuhara-chō (2022), Kankyō e no torikumi, http://www.town.yusuhara.kochi.jp/town/

by Maritchu Durand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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