Phd research with a kid — part 2

by Cecilia Luzi

It’s been a year since I returned from maternity leave last September. When I wrote the first post for this blog about my experience of raising a child as a PhD student, I talked mostly about what it felt like to return to work after giving birth. I remember being very confused at the time: I didn’t know exactly what to expect or how to approach the various stages of the PhD process with a young child. What worried me the most was the fact that I had to leave Europe to start fieldwork in Japan. Now, I am about to leave for Japan and feel that I am learning to be an anthropologist and a mother at the same time, with all the enthusiasm and anxiety that accompany any new beginning. Although I know that having my son and partner in the field with me is a wonderful opportunity for the mother and anthropologist I want to become, the newness of it all scares me a little.

Over the past year, I have been juggling the uncertainty and insecurity left by the Covid 19 pandemic and the need for constant care and attention that a child in the first year of life requires. My partner and I began preparing all the necessary documents in November 2021, hoping to leave for Japan by the end of the year. For this reason, we decided not to start looking for a kindergarten for our son right away. He was about six months old at the time, and we didn’t want to take him somewhere, let him settle in, and then take him out two months later at that age. However, when the Omicron variant showed up at the end of November and the Japanese government closed the borders again, it became increasingly clear to us that we could not leave so soon. Moreover, we had no idea when and if at all fieldwork in Japan would be possible. After a year of my doctoral work, I was tired of going through the cumbersome bureaucratic procedures to apply for a visa, so in March 2022, we decided to postpone our departure until the fall and I began to collect data with online interviews. At that time, we started looking for a kindergarten for our one-year-old son and only started the Certificate of Eligibility (CoE) application process again in summer. We had to go through the entire process from scratch because our host institutions in Japan had changed. Now the last documents are on their way and soon we will go to the embassy to get the visas in our passports.

For me, organizing a long fieldwork in Japan without knowing the exact start date for months meant learning how to manage an upcoming move by making sure to respect the schedule and necessities of the rigid routine of a child’s first year of life. Specifically, CoE applications alternated with urgent emails to kindergartens in Berlin and pediatrician appointments for mandatory immunizations had to be juggled with Zoom meetings with our host universities in Japan. Today I know that what was for us a long time of postponements and cancellations, fatigue and frustration, was for my son the year of his life, when he ate spaghetti with tomato sauce for the first time, learned to walk around the living room singing songs and making dog noises when he met one on the street. It was a very emotional moment to see him go to to kindergarten for the first time and gradually become independent from me.

Lately I have been thinking about what fieldwork and motherhood might have in common, and this has helped me to see my fears from a different perspective. I am learning to reflect and be aware of my own position, to consider my role and how I perceive myself in contact with others, and I believe this is part of both ethnography and motherhood. Although I realize that the two can be very similar, it scares me that I will have to learn to work in the field and take care of my child at the same time. Will I be good enough to do this for him and for my research? How can I find the time to write notes every night, pay attention to his needs, keep track of what is happening around me, and respond to my growing child’s explosive curiosity? I feel like I’m taking a leap into the void, but perhaps this fear of the unknown is ultimately exactly the feeling one should have when embarking on the field during one’s PhD or becoming a first-time mother.

by Cornelia Reiher

This blog contains several posts about and by members of chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai (COKT).  Launched in 2009 by Japan’s Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications (Sōmushō), COKT provides funding to communities in rural Japan to hire people who move into their communities and promote revitalization activities for three years (Reiher 2020). However, when editing recent blogposts and scrolling through numerous Instagram profiles of urban-rural migrants and local and central government websites, I was struck by the wide variety of English translations for the program. Some examples include “rural revitalization corps,” “local vitalization cooperator,” “local revitalization squadron” and “community building support staff.” Since COKT is one of the central government’s programs aimed at both rural revitalization and urban-rural migration, I think it is important to reflect on the various translations and interpretations of the program’s name itself.

In this post, I focus primarily on the meaning of the term kyōryoku, which means cooperation or “to work together to do things”. But the way how people work together can differ as I realized when I listened to my research participants who are or were members of COKT. Many reflected on their roles as employees of their respective communities and some saw their role rather as supporting revitalization activities while others described their work more as a cooperation between equal partners. Thus, I believe, thinking about “kyōryoku” can help to better understand the relationships between COKT program participants and their host communities.

Certainly, there are many other problems when translating chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai into English (or German). The problem starts with the term chiiki. It is primarily a geographical and sociological term that can be translated as region or regional, but can also mean a relatively small space such as the immediate neighborhood or an inner-city area or all communities outside of urban centers (Morioka 2008). Chiiki okoshi is a concept with its own history. Since the 1970s, attempts to establish new industries in rural regions and greater autonomy for local authorities have been discussed under the term village renewal (mura okoshi) or regional renewal (chiiki okoshi). The mura okoshi movement was strongly inspired by the ideas of localism (chiiki shugi) (Kitano 2009: 22, 23). It is also debated whether the term ‘revitalization’ or ‘vitalization’ should be used as revitalization implies a rather conservative approach of nostalgic longing for a better past (Klien 2009: 221).

Although at first glance it may seem the least problematic term in the program’s name, kyōryoku can have different meanings when COKT members and municipalities work together. COKT participants’ jobs and the way they are treated by the local government that employs them can differ greatly within and between municipalities. While some COKT members are artists and enjoy the freedom to work in their studios all day, others are required to show up for work in the town hall at 8:30 am and to regularly report to their superiors. Some have clearly defined tasks, such as working at the support desk for incoming migrants, creating and updating municipalities’ social media accounts or working in local cultural facilities. Those who report more positive experiences in the COKT often describe their work experience in terms of cooperation. Some told me that they did not plan to join COKT, but when they called the municipal government of the town they wanted to relocate to or visited the place they were offered a position in the program. In some cases, municipal governments look for people who bring new ideas and initiate projects and are happy to support them. In order to find the best people for the job, they go through a careful selection process. Municipalities who select COKT members based on their ideas for the revitalization of their town are more likely to give them a free hand with their projects. With the goal of settling down, some COKT members already establish companies or careers for the time after their three-year contract ends.

Other (and sometimes the same) municipalities provide COKT members with only little agency to realize their own projects. They are expected them to support local activities instead of cooperating on an equal footing. COKT members who are older and have already had careers in other professions find this particularly obstructive. They have their own ideas about revitalization, but not all of these ideas can be realized. Some of my interviewees, however, don’t want to implement their own ideas and are happy to simply support existing projects.

Sometimes COKT members are hired as substitute for municipal staff due to tight municipal budgets. Some municipalities have found very creative solutions to deal with the lack of staff, for example, topping up the working hours of COKT members (they only work 15 days a month) with an additional salary. So, a large part of the personnel costs is financed by the central government through the COKT program. This is the only way cultural institutions can operate in some communities and further increases the dependency between municipalities and the central government.

In summary, the meaning of kyōryoku in chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai varies from municipality to municipality and within municipalities. However, COKT members who experience kyōryoku as cooperation rather than as support report more positive experiences with the program. Municipalities have different reasons for employing individuals via the COKT program; lacking resources is one of many. Future research examining COKT’s contribution to rural revitalization should pay attention to how municipalities actually work with COKT participants.

References

Reiher, Cornelia (2020), “Embracing the periphery: Urbanites’ motivations to relocate to rural Japan”, in Manzenreiter, Wolfram, Lützeler, Ralph and Polak-Rottmann, Sebastian (Eds.), Japan’s new ruralities: Coping with decline in the periphery, London: Routledge, pp. 230–244.

Kitano, Shu (2009), Space, Planning and Rurality. Uneven Rural Development in Japan, Victoria, BC: Trafford.

Morioka, Kiyoshi (2008) „‚Chiʼiki‘ e no apurōchi“ [Approaches to chiʼiki], in: ders. (ed.), Chiʼiki no shakaigaku [Regional Sociology], Tōkyō: Yūhikaku, S.3-20.

Klien, Susanne (2009), „Ländliche Regionen und Tourismusvermarktung zwischen Revitalisierung oder Exotisierung: Das Beispiel Echigo-Tsumari“, in: Wieczorek, Iris und David Chiavacci (Hg.), Japan 2009. Politik, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft, Berlin: VSJF, S. 217-242.

by Sarah Bijlsma

On a Monday afternoon, I enter the door of a small esoteric shop on Miyakojima that is hidden behind a bush of shell ginger (getto). I came here together with Kenji, a 40-year-old man originally from Osaka who, until recently, worked as a member of the Community Building Support Staff (chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai). I had been curious about the shop as it describes itself as a space where human vibrations align with the power of nature. The owner, a charismatic man who I estimate to be about 40 years old, tells us that the lapis lazuli, amber, and amethyst jewelry that he sells is inspired by Miyako’s natural world. Stones that have different shades of blue remind him of the ocean, while the darker ones represent the starry sky at night. According to the shop owner, customers often feel a strong connection with one particular stone; it is as if the jewelry picks the buyer instead of the other way around.

Behind the counter, there is a photograph of the owner and receptionist together with the late former PM Shinzo Abe. “He was a very spiritual person,” the receptionist notes. “And he and his wife grew their own vegetables. I don’t know anything about politics, but from a human perspective I had the feeling he was a very good man.” The receptionist, who introduces herself as Emiko, explains that Abe and his wife enjoyed the island because of the high number of negative ions that make Miyako into one large power spot. Negative ions are said to be molecules or atoms that are electrically charged with negative energy and are considered to have a positive effect on the physical and mental well-being of living beings [1].  Furthermore, the strong energy of Miyako can be related to the many dragon deities (ryūjin-sama) that live here. The world that cannot be seen (me ni mienai sekai) is very present, she explains. In that world, every living being is one and the same, that is why we need to share our knowledge and happiness with each other also in this world.

I ask Emiko whether the healing energy of the island remains as powerful as before amidst Miyako’s recent building rush.  She says that if development happens in the right way, energy can certainly be preserved. It is important, for example, that the sky of Miyako is not blocked, so winds and the dragons can freely move around. While she acknowledges that construction work goes hand in hand with environmental issues on Miyako, she stresses she is not against development in general. For example, until a few years ago, local children had only the option to go into sugarcane farming when growing up. Due to this lack of opportunities, most of them left and found jobs in other areas of Japan. Now some of them stay to work in the tourist industry or return to Miyako after a couple of years. Moreover, before 2015, the beaches were full of washed-up plastic and garbage that people had left behind. Much of this has been removed. So, development does not only destroy the environment, but it also creates opportunities for improvement. As we say goodbye, Emiko gives me a firm hug and says I can come back whenever I want to know more. Back in the car, Kenji mentions that judging on the atmosphere around her, he thinks she might be a local shaman (yuta) who mediates between the gods and the contemporary world.

We drive to the ICT center to attend a public talk on recycling. It is organized by Miyako’s Eco Island department that is responsible for environmental policies and PR activities. During the hour and a half presentation, we learn how garbage can be transformed into a valuable resource. Rubber ties can be turned into an energy source used for streetlights and greenhouses in the winter. Also, plastic can be recycled into fashionable drinking cups, of which we all get one after the presentation is done. At the end of the evening, I ask Kenji if he has gained some new insights during the talk. He tells me that he started to think fundamentally differently about Miyako’s development through today’s events. He knows that the community of Japanese migrants on Miyakojima is taking a strong stance against recent changes. But by listening to Emiko and the recycling specialist, he came to understand that development is actually not something that should be avoided at any cost. When you find the right balance, it can become a positive thing for both people and the environment.

When I left my house that day to learn more about Miyako’s environmental changes through the lenses of spirituality and local policies, I did not expect that in both cases economic development would be advocated to me. It made me realize that local residents think about nature in different terms than Japanese migrants from urban areas. This indicates that environmental issues are not so easily captured in terms of objective truth. Even on an island as small as Miyako, the question of what “nature” is and how it should be protected has different answers depending on who you ask.

References

[1] Jiang, S. Y., Ma, A., & Ramachandran, S. (2018). Negative Air Ions and Their Effects on Human Health and Air Quality Improvement. International journal of molecular sciences, 19(10), 2966. https://doi.org/10.3390/ijms19102966

by Kiyomi Misaki

Last November, I started to work for a local tourism association in Niseko in northern Japan as a local revitalization cooperator in the chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai program initiated by the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications to encourage people from cities to move to and settle in rural areas and to engage in community activities. It is a countermeasure against the overconcentration of the population in Tokyo and the outflow of the rural population. I am doing fieldwork while working for Kutchan Tourism Association (KTA). Through my fieldwork and working for KTA, I am currently thinking that an economy-oriented climate may undermine the local community and local culture.

It may be confusing that Niseko does not technically have the definition of a region, and people first come to mind is a mountain area in Kutchan town when they hear the name Niseko. For that reason, Niseko in this article means Kutchan town. Niseko, with a population of 15,000 people, is a tourist destination known for powder snow in winter, attracting skiers and snowboarders from all over the world. The mountain area in Niseko has been redeveloped since the late 1990s by Australian entrepreneurs. Since the season in Australia and Japan is opposite, some Australians enjoy skiing and snowboarding throughout the year, going back and forth between Niseko and Australia each winter. Since 2014, the proportion of Australians, which accounted for half of all visitors, has gradually decreased and visitors from Asian countries such as Hong Kong, Singapore and China have increased instead.

With so many foreign tourists, Niseko is a very international place. English becomes the common language in its ski resort during the winter. Long queues at ski lifts and lodges packed with international tourists are a familiar sight during peak season. Land prices going up due to foreign investments and expelling small local businesses from the community. Niseko is now regarded as a successful example of rural revitalization and internationalization through tourism and a front runner of challenges such as overtourism and gentrification at the same time. As a result, media attention and the image of Niseko that people envisage focus on tourism development and internationalization led by tourism. Niseko also uses the international image to attract more tourists and immigrants.

While tourism development significantly impacts the community in Niseko, the community is not only about tourism. People engaging in agriculture have a different lifestyle from those working in the tourism sector. Business owners in the city center (20 minutes’ drive from the mountain area) have different perspectives from those located in the mountain area (ski resorts) regarding community development. They complain about what KTA is doing because they think tourism only contributes to the mountain area and leaves people in the city center behind. I joined a French conversation club in the city center to meet new people. Eventually, I met people with diverse backgrounds, such as an illustrator moving from west Japan to seek powder snow, a housewife coming to Niseko due to her husband’s transfer and a woman who has been running an inn for over 20 years. I am a researcher at a university in Australia/ a chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai member/ born and growing up in Hokkaido. We have different motivations for coming here and diverse perspectives. We all create current Niseko, meaning that local culture is an accumulation of interactions between such people living in the place and nature.

Therefore, culture should be recognized as grassroot politics, practices of people with various values, contradictions, conflict and cooperation emerging from diverse social relationships. However, culture can easily be transformed into a source of profits. Amidst globalized urban lifestyles, rare and unique practices are commodified for tourism in information capitalism [1]. Tourism seemingly brought economic prosperity and diversity to Niseko, but it seems to undermine cultural prosperity and diversity. Cultural prosperity is not promoting the culture as a commodity but creating a climate where people with diverse backgrounds and perspectives can discuss matters of the community.

What is happening in the local community is closely linked with the national policy for regional revitalization. In the shrinking domestic economy, the Japanese government encourages communities to create a unique culture that attracts people to come and immigrate to the area to survive from decline. Many members of the chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai make efforts to find local characteristics for branding and the promotion of tourism to distinguish communities from each other. In this context, communities must become a “kasegu” (making money) community. Many rely on competitive public subsidies to become part of the Kasegu community. Although powder snow and an international image have become an attraction for tourists and immigrants in Niseko, cultural diversity seems missing. Some residents feel that diverse backgrounds and perspectives other than tourism are often neglected in local politics.

The same is true for the decision-making process. Our association is a good example. KTA, does not only depend on subsidies from the town, but is also a hierarchical and patriarchal organization. The top-down process is effective for implementing projects because projects financed through subsidies need to show short-term outcomes. Deliberation is omitted to achieve results in a short time. A short-sighted plan precludes a time-consuming process with many stakeholders. Moreover, middle-aged men are still at the center of the local economy and are responsible for money-making activities. Who is excluded from the decision-making? Should the local culture, understood as all the people and nature creating the community be considered more and how so? In my PhD project, I am trying to explore possible answers to these questions.

References

[1] Yoshimi, S., & Morris-Suzuki, T. (2004). Gurōbarizēshon no Bunka Seiji (The cultural politics of globalisation). Heibonsha.

Kiyomi Misaki is a PhD candidate at Asia Institute, the University of Melbourne, and a researcher at Center for Advanced Tourism Studies, Hokkaido University. She currently works as a member of chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai (translated as local revitalization cooperator) as part of her fieldwork in Niseko, Hokkaido.

Part 2: (Im)Mobilities and economic risks

by Johannes Wilhelm

In rural Aso, the pandemic was initially perceived as a problem of urban areas, but the then unknown disease frightened many. The initial impact in Kumamoto was most noticeable in schools, where graduation ceremonies and new enrollments for the new school year around March/April 2020 were cancelled. Events around the cherry blossom season – such as the beautiful village festival in the 9th district of Kugino – did not take place in most cases. One exception was the hifuri no shinji at Aso Shrine on March 18, 2020, a festival in which hay bundles are tied to a rope and twirled around the shrine’s entrance area. In a sense, the festival marks the beginning of the agricultural year, which is symbolized by a cultic marriage of two deities. Interestingly, the festival almost always coincides with the beginning of the cherry blossom season, an old woman told me. The sandō path to the shrine was lined with numerous people following the festival after dusk, since it is one of the most important holiday ceremonies at the sacred site.

The steadily growing number of so-called inbound tourists from abroad until the turn of the year 2019/2020 – in Kyūshū’s case mainly from China and Korea due to the relatively short distance –came to an abrupt stop with the country’s closure to foreigners. Japan’s entry restrictions had a huge impact on the tourism sector. Aso was no exception. As a resident, this had some advantages such as fewer cars, for example. Before the pandemic, tourists suddenly stopped and parked their car somewhere along a serpentine and even wandered around at times to take photos with their cell phones for social media. One day in May 2020, I had an interesting encounter in Uchinomaki. I was invited by a local group as a guest to stay overnight at the beautiful Sozankyō guesthouse. Throughout its history, the old guesthouse has accommodated famous people like the well-known poets Yosano Tekkan and Akiko. On the way back from breakfast, I unexpectedly met a middle-aged German who had made his way to Japan after an odyssey from Polynesia, where he wanted to wander around as a tourist for as long as possible. Well, each to his own, I thought .

Less tourism also has its advantages, but for those in Aso whose jobs depend on tourism, the pandemic has been a disaster with an unclear end. Y., an employee at the so-called Shokuan (Shokugyō antei-sho, commonly known as “Hellowork”) told us that the number of job seekers was skyrocketing. Since she was also responsible for non-Japanese clients at the “employment office,” she was also able to tell me more about the many foreign helpers, especially in the agricultural sector (Nōgyō jisshūsei, i.e. officially “agricultural interns”). Many among the latter found themselves in an absurd situation, a pandemic limbo, because on the one hand it was not possible for them to leave Japan or enter their home countries. Meanwhile, they ran the risk of overstaying their residence permits and thus slipping into visa crime. By the time the relevant authorities were able to offer a solution to this very problem, the immigration authorities were completely overrun. I experienced this firsthand, when I had to extend my visa in March 2020.

The case of four siblings from the Philippines shows how migrants were affected by this situation. They originally came to Japan as interns and were later hired as helpers by the landlord of my regular pub, where small jazz sessions were held. But the pub had to be constantly closed for a certain period of time and the landlord finally had to file for bankruptcy in April 2021, leaving the siblings more or less out in the cold. The employment office worker told me about nursing schools that were suddenly overrun with women from the Philippines seeking to retrain in nursing despite their lack of Japanese language skills. These schools, in turn, urgently needed support staff and funding to teach basic language skills in the nursing sector.

In contrast to urban areas, the risks of infection in rural Aso were initially manageable. As a result, young urban families and freelancers (e.g., in the digital sector with no local ties) began to move to the countryside. This was actually quite similar to what had happened after the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The new concept of working holiday was gratefully received and also propagated by numerous media-savvy academics and government agencies (abbreviated as wā-hori it should not be confused with the same abbreviation for workaholic), which in turn led to subsidy programs for office conversions for numerous hostels. Let’s see how long this trend lasts, I thought. At the same time, these new migrants seemed somewhat selfish to me, especially since – in most cases – they ignored the local residents and local conditions to some degree. They did not want to give up their urban lifestyles and do ‘their thing’. Such an attitude, together with a lack of integration efforts by the local authorities tied to Corona measures, was doomed to fail. That locals were hardly willing to make their partly empty properties available was may be a sign of resistance. In the spring of 2020, the waiting list counted more than 200 households who wanted to move in from urban areas to Minamiaso-mura.

Soon, however, the pandemic will also reach rural areas as we have learned from the so-called ‘Spanish flu’. More on this in the following parts of the report.

[… 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 Ngo Tu Thanh (Frank Tu)

In July 2022, I finally made it to Fukuoka after 9 years! This is my first visit to Kyūshū since my time as a high school senior in Yame-shi – a small rural city in Fukuoka Prefecture. Needless to say, I was overjoyed to be back or as they say in Japanese: “dokidoki-kan, wakuwaku-kan hanpanai”. The excitement does not only come from the fact that I can reunite with my host family, high school friends and teachers after such a long time. But it also stems from the main reason why I am here: to research Fukuoka’s regional revitalization policies. During my two-month stay here, I will be mainly based in Fukuoka City to interview officials at the Fukuoka prefectural government, as well as in Buzen City to meet municipal officials. 

“Humidity”, “beachy”, “hospitality”, “energy”, “positivity”, “touristy”, and “gastronomy” are the words I would use to describe my stay in Fukuoka so far. Facing the sea on three sides, Fukuoka Prefecture is home to many beautiful beaches, many of which are accessible by public transport. In the summer, Fukuoka is humid and hot, similar to most other parts of Japan. However, the salty sea breezes here gives a very different feeling from other cities such as Tokyo. Fukuoka’s beaches are also hotspots for small businesses such as bars, restaurants, diving, surfing and swimming courses. Personally, I often went swimming in Momochi beach (Fukuoka City) after work and “contributed to Fukuoka’s economy” by getting a fresh cocktail. Yet, I kept wondering why the beach never gets overly crowded. In response to this question, the owner of the flat I am currently staying at told me that Fukuoka’s beaches used to attract many tourists from Korea, Taiwan and some Southeast Asian countries. However, Covid-19 has put a stop to tourism from outside of Japan and hence the number of visitors declined. But right now, thanks to the summer vacation period and the Obon festival (July – August), domestic travelers can still be seen everywhere. 

In addition to beaches, Fukuoka Prefecture also offers a wide range of tourist attractions. For instance, Dazaifu Tenmangu (Dazaifu City) is a well-known shrine dedicated to the God of Education. Japanese students usually visit the shrine before exams for good fortune. Personally, I also went to Dazaifu Tenmangu in 2013 before my university entrance exam, and visited it again this time around in hope of a successful PhD graduation.

Another example is the Hakata Gion Yamakasa Festival (Fukuoka City), which is held every year during the first half of July. This festival returned for the first time since the outbreak of COVID-19 in 2020. The festival was a multi-day race between groups of men who had to run a five-kilometer course while carrying a one-ton festival float (kakiyama). Despite the extreme heat and humidity in July, visitors to the festival could feel the energy and vitality emanating from the participants. The festival did really revitalize the city!

Furthermore, Fukuoka is highly famous within Japan for its various delicacies, such as Hakata ramen, chanpon, and especially seafood. Also, visiting a street food stall (yatai) is often introduced as one of Fukuoka’s must-do activities, even by locals. Gastronomy is one of the main attractions for many tourists in Fukuoka.

As described so far, Fukuoka Prefecture seems to have a lot of potential for tourism, and that is exactly what many of its municipalities are striving for. During my stay here, I had the opportunity to speak with a former Cabinet Office official who now works at Fukuoka City Hall. The official informed me that many places in Fukuoka Prefecture do not have large rivers necessary for factories, and therefore many communities call themselves “service towns” and focus on tourism. However, the Covid-19 pandemic has made the strategy of focusing on the service sector very risky. Therefore, it is important for municipalities in Fukuoka to diversify their strategies for regional development.

New rural lifestyles in Japan (part 2)

by Cecilia Luzi

I am about to leave for fieldwork in Japan and I am looking forward to visiting my two field sites, Hasami-chō in Nagasaki-ken and Buzen-shi in Fukuoka-ken. Today I will introduce images and online representations of Hasami. I have never been to Hasami. I never visited the ceramic park nor did I enjoy a freshly brewed ice-coffee in one of the cafés in town. My image of Hasami however is that of a trendy village and it is based on hours spent following Instagram accounts, watching YouTube travel videos in my office in Berlin and a few online interviews with locals. Hasami-chō is a small village of around 15.000 inhabitants surrounded by mountains. Along with many pottery studios and workshops selling handmade porcelain to suit every pocket, Hasami is full of small, cozy cafés with delicious handmade food and welcoming owners. Hasami is the only municipality in Nagasaki prefecture with no direct access to the sea. There is no train station either, but Hasami is only a two-hour drive away from Fukuoka, so tourists visit its historical kilns and the ceramic park often by car. Usually, visitors come for a one-day trip, though a few stay overnight.

 According to the online videos, after a quick stop at the first ramen-shop on the road many visit  Hiroppa a famous ceramic themed park designed by a Tōkyō-based architecture studio. Hiroppa holds a shop selling ceramics from different kilns, other small boutiques, cafés and a wide garden. It perfectly fits the contemporary aesthetic standards of the most stylish and “Instagrammable” places in Tōkyō: a mix of industrial design, minimalist decor and photograph-worthy details. The tour of Hasami then continues with a visit to old porcelain manufactures and more recent workshops, where traditional styles and techniques of local potters stand next to the original works of younger craftsmen and craftswomen.

In Hasami, small cafés have spread over the past decade, and visitors can take a rest to sip fresh brewed coffee and taste eye-catching dishes while enjoying the atmosphere of an old Japanese house or renovated ceramic workshop. They can choose to have customized crêpes (Morinaga special crepe), artisanal ice creams (Kometama) or French-style cuisine (Yōshokuya Forest). Some of these places are affiliated with a porcelain studio (as at Zoe l’Atelier de poterie), while others are located in what was once an old ceramic manufacturing complex (e.g. Nishinohara, where migrants who arrived around 15 years ago also built an indoor climbing wall!). Each of these businesses is unique and they all share a cosmopolitan and sophisticated atmosphere.

A couple of my research participants explained to me how Hasami’s townscape has changed in only one decade. When some of the migrants I interviewed arrived between 2007 and 2010, the town was not particularly attractive for young urbanites. However, favorable economic conditions and political choices for rural repopulation created the right mix of incentives for many new small personal businesses including cafés and crafts shops. Young artists and ceramic artisans also started to settle down. As a result, tourists and one-day visitors increased. This Hasami-būmu, as one of my informants called it, has been transforming the town from a place where “nothing was there” (nanimo nakatta) to a cool, stylish and trendy location (osharena tokoro). Yet, the case of Hasami is not unique but rather reflects what happens in many small municipalities in rural Japan that are undergoing some degree of transformation under the influence of urban-rural migration and domestic tourism.

The online images of Hasami I have introduced above, show that the digital transformation of daily life is impacting the way rural Japan is experienced by residents and perceived by outsiders. In this context, online space plays an important role as a platform for both the production and consumption of a new image of rural Japan. Understanding the importance of the online dimension for the dissemination of these representations is essential, especially since a large proportion of them are created by urban-rural migrants who target other urbanites. To attract this specific type of audience, rural Japan is portrayed as stylish, traditional and innovative and as a vibrant place with interesting activities and people living close to nature. Rural areas are depicted as beautiful landscapes with terraced rice paddies, small villages and lush mountains.

The changes of images and perceptions of rural areas taking place in the digital space are visible through social media like Instagram, Tiktok and Facebook. But this transformation in the production and consumption of rural Japan impacts the physical space and daily lives of rural dwellers as well. Not only does the landscape change, but businesses and new activities also open up new opportunities for long-term residents. One of my research participants, who runs a café that was among the first businesses that kicked off Hasami’s transformation, told me that after an initial period of skepticism, Hasami’s elderly residents slowly began to frequent her establishment and eventually became regular customers. They now sit in the café alongside travel bloggers from Fukuoka and recent immigrants from Tōkyō, providing the place with the touch of authenticity many (former) urbanites are looking for.

Yet from my desk in Berlin many questions remain. These include for example: How are things really changing? How is the digital representation of rural Japan mirroring real life experiences of both locals, newcomers and settled migrants?  I plan to leave for fieldwork by mid-October. I’m looking forward to being in Hasami and to meeting and talking to its residents about all these transformations in person.

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!