by Wendy Wuyts

I am a feminist. I strongly realized this when I lived and did research in Japan and particularly during an onsite training from April 2018 to February 2019. The onsite research training (ORT) was organized by professors from Nagoya University and aimed at teaching students the skills of clinical environmental studies. Together with three other PhD students I was assigned to conduct case studies in Higashi-Shirakawa and Shirakawa-chō in Gifu prefecture. These two towns were introduced to us as suffering from extreme population decline. When we enrolled in ORT in 2018, the professors had already conducted this training for several years in the Ise Bay Bioregion in Japan (Kato et al. 2014). The ‘Onsite research training (ORT)’ is transdisciplinary and stimulates a co-learning and co-designing process. We were encouraged to present both a diagnosis of local problems and then a treatment based on information gathered through interviews and discussions with local experts to understand their tacit knowledge and to combine it with academic knowledge.

During a well-planned three-day visit to the two villages, the professors (mostly male) would present local stories. Our task was to document everything in order to make a diagnosis and to select a problem we would focus on in the next six months.  We met local government officials, visited farmers (pork, green tea, vegetables), tea factories, taxi drivers and other inhabitants of the villages who talked about their problems and ideas. We met long-term residents and newcomers. Interestingly, most of them were Japanese men. We listened to 30 men, and only two women. In addition, women, including female professors, were put in serving roles. The feminist inside me roared.

After these three days, I remarked to the professors that we heard quite biased stories of these villages and asked for more female voices during our next visit. The professors did not understand the need for interviewing women at first, but my experiences in Japan and exchange with feminist students at Nagoya University made me realize the importance of gender analysis in rural or any other place(s) as different gender roles result in different everyday experiences and knowledge about the place people inhabit (West & Zimmerman, 1987). We were later introduced to more women in the field. Their stories and literature on gender in Japanese rural villages and towns provided even more evidence that gender is an important factor when it comes to, for example, community participation.

For our project, we decided to analyze the acceptance of newcomers in the two towns. Rather than attracting newcomers, making them stay, was a challenge in both places. We wanted to find out if this was related to their social acceptance. In October, we designed a questionnaire in order to compare and analyze the acceptance of I-turners, U-turners and people that married locals. We created questionnaires and with the help of the local governments, sent out questionnaires to 800 people (625 in Shirakawa-chō and 175 in Higashi-Shirakawa). The response rate was 40% or more (330/800).

We asked two questions that were inspired by literature on gender relations and previous conversations with men and women in the months before. One question was about community spaces where newcomers and long-term residents can meet. The other was about community events where they could get in touch. We were interested in, if for example, men would answer differently than women. Our analysis found that women more often answered that they think that not enough community spaces are available, while more men said there are not enough community events for newcomers that would foster communication with local residents. These differences are due to the gendered accessibility of community events and community spaces. Thus, our research shows how important a gender perspective is regarding the acceptance of newcomers in rural Japan. By the way: In the following year, the ORT organizers included more “female stories” in the three-day introduction to their onsite research training.

Wendy Wuyts, originally from Belgium, received her PhD in environmental science from the Graduate School of Environmental Studies, Nagoya University. She currently works as researcher in the Norwegian University of Science and Technology. Her research interests include (social impacts of) circularity, sustainable transitions and territorial ecology. Results of this study are not published (yet), but the author still has all the data, the report and posters for seminars, reflections and other notes. You can contact her (wendy.wuyts@ntnu.no) if you want to learn more.

References:

Kato, Hirokazu, Hiroyuki Shimizu, Noriyuki Kawamura, Yasuhiro Hirano, Takashi Tashiro, Hiromi Yamashita, Keisuke Tomita, Mitsuyuki Tomiyoshi, & Kazu Hagihara. (2014), A Prospect Toward Establishment of Basic and Clinical Environmental Studies by ORT (On-Site Research Training) in Shimizu, H. and Murayama, A. eds., 2014. Basic and clinical environmental approaches in landscape planning. Springer Science & Business Media. https://link.springer.com/content/pdf/10.1007/978-4-431-54415-9.pdf, Accessed 10 April 2019.

West, C., Zimmermann, D.H. (1987). ‘Doing Gender’, Gender & Society 1 (2): 125-151.

by Maritchu Durand

For a few years now and increasingly since the start of the Covid-19 pandemic, urbanites’ interest in moving to the countryside and renovating vacant houses has been growing in Japan. Prefectures attempt to attract younger people who seek a place to live outside the metropoles while keeping a close connection to urban spaces. But for more remote prefectures with high numbers of abandoned houses, it is hard to compete with prefectures that are much closer to urban centers like Tokyo or Osaka. Isseki nichō – to kill two birds with one stone –is what towns and prefectures in remote areas try to do when promoting the reuse of akiya, the vacant houses of rural Japan, to attract young migrants. Oita prefecture, for example, organizes workshops on different aspects of DIY (Do It Yourself) renovation of akiya and features stories about recently renovated houses and their inhabitants in short videos on its migration and relocation website.

Each story is centered around an interview with people who renovated a house and introduces the renovation works they accomplished themselves in their new homes. Each of the renovation projects represents a different ‘level’ of experience: beginner, intermediate and expert. The video about the ‘beginner level’ introduces a young couple who moved from southern Kyushu to a small mountainous community where they renovated a more than 100-year-old house from floor to ceiling. They threw down walls to create a wide and open central space and furnished it with antiques. While the young man declares that with an akiya, one starts with a disadvantage, it becomes a precious advantage in many aspects later on. It gives them the freedom to design it the way they want. In addition, it becomes a unique way to connect with the local population by asking them for advice on renovation. The migrants also discover skills they did not know they had prior the start of this adventure. In the future, the young couple wants to turn their new home into a guesthouse.

The lively and energetic family featured in the second video represents the ‘intermediate level’ of renovation and shares a similar experience of connecting with locals through their renovation experience. The couple moved from Tokyo and renovated a 50-year-old house in a traditional shopping street. The more they asked locals for advice, the more they discovered how much the community was willing to help them fulfill their dream to open a share-house with a multi-use room on the ground floor they rent out for events and pop-up stores. In addition, they could rely on a broad network of friends and connections, both nationwide and international, that came to help with the renovation. The couple could therefore manage to take care of their three children while conducting all the renovation work themselves.

The video on the ‘expert level’ tells a renovation story of a U-turner who transformed an old house into an Italian restaurant. It unravels a successful mixture of boldness, determination, and community ties. Within forty days, the 30-year-old man managed to completely renovate and modernize a 70-year-old building into a modern restaurant. He realized that once he started making things himself that he will also be able to renovate again and maintain the house in the long run, thereby making the restaurant sustainable and economically viable.

All interviewees talk about an innovative and “DIY” spirit that is growing in Oita. According to them, more and more people decide to take matters into their own hands and, with the help of the local community and their friends and acquaintances from all over Japan, they manage to realize their own renovation projects. Their renovation experiences include stories of entrepreneurship, strong community ties, self-realization and perseverance to realize one’s own dream.

In addition to the videos, Oita prefectures also offers workshops about DIY renovation. The workshops target especially young women and their families who wish to move to Oita and renovate a house. As experienced senpai, the people who appear in the videos, also participate in the workshops and talk about all the possibilities renovation projects offer to potential migrants. The workshops offer a comprehensive overview of what a DIY renovation implies from finding a house to living a fun life while renovating an akiya. Offering workshops on renovation featuring true life stories while creating a network of young innovators and an active community surrounding the reuse and repurposing of older houses might be an advantage for more remote areas like Oita. It remains to be seen if these events will motivate more young people to move to Kyushu and transform a vacant house into their dream home.  

by Bobby Okinaka

My name is Bobby Okinaka. I am 52. I am an American, but a long-time resident of Japan. In April, 2021, I moved with my wife and young son from Tokyo to the middle of Shikoku Island. This place is called Niyodogawa-cho. It is a region of many steep mountains and clear blue rivers. The town is actually a number of smaller towns joined together to reduce administrative costs known as the gappei system. Today, its population is 4,968. The main industries are logging and tea. At one point, its peak was 26,000. There was a copper mine that has since closed. And on the sides of the mountains that got the most sun, they grew the paper mulberry plants for washi paper. Today, there is only one paper maker left.

How did I end up in Niyodogawa-cho? A few years earlier, a friend of mine from university moved here from California to open a craft beer brewery. Located deep in the mountains, it’s safe to say his beer has the most naturally pure water in Japan. Since the birth of my child, I had been looking for an opportunity to live in the countryside. I think it’s a good life for little children and it would be better for our health as well. When I visited my friend, I was introduced to some people from the town office and they let it be known that I could apply for the Regional Revitalization Corp (Chiiki Okoshi Kyorokutai). So I went back to Tokyo, packed everything up, and we started our new life in the countryside.

My role is to do activities that enrich the town is some manner. They asked me to teach English at the local schools and support various town activities, but for the most part it’s up to me to find my mission and ideally, a way to make a living, so that I will continue to live here after my three year stint is up. Initially I thought about working with tourism. I thought it would be nice to open a guest house. The major attraction in this area is the tranquil color of the river water they call, “Niyodo Blue.” We are only an hour from Kochi City, so it is easy for visitors to come here and play in the river. I am also interested in sustainability. So I started composting. In the spring I am looking forward to experimenting with growing vegetables with microbes. I hope to start a community composting program. I learn everything about composting and gardening from YouTube.

The internet has changed country living. 30 years ago, I lived in another rural area of Japan as a member of the JET Program. Back then I felt very isolated. Today, I feel like life in the countryside is not much different from the city. I can buy everything I need online. I can get my favorite American television shows. I can communicate easily with family and friends. Of course there are some inconveniences, especially the lack of restaurants, sporting events, museums and live concerts. But I can exchange that for riverside barbecues, gardening and camping. And instead of seeing stars on a stage, I can see real stars in the night sky.

Together with one of my coworkers, we started an oral history program. We interview people from the community and record their life stories. Our goal is to create an exhibition about a small town in Japan. We will combine their voices with an examination of rural problems and the regional revitalization strategy. We will also imagine the future through the lens of sustainability. About sustainability, I believe the solution for many global problems can be found in the countryside, albeit on a small scale. Farmers can change their practices to build healthy soil. It will increase water holding capacity and end the use of chemical fertilizers that wash into the oceans. Healthy soil means that more carbon can be sequestered into the earth. Healthy soil means that the fruits and vegetable are rich in nutrients and full of flavor. Also, the countryside has the promising potential to be an energy solution. They have the space for renewable energy production. The costs are getting cheaper, the technology is proven. If the rural regions make clean electricity to meet the demands of power-hungry cities, they will never be short of funds again. With all our mountains and rivers, this place is an ideal condition for micro hydropower.

I hope to show our exhibition in cities around Japan to challenge the common perceptions of the countryside. People say the countryside is dying; I say it is full of opportunity and this is a way to show them. In addition, using my connections in North America, I hope to bring the exhibition to Los Angeles and Toronto. We may be a small town, but I think our story is worth sharing, much like this website. After the exhibition, rather than start a guesthouse, I have a big idea to convert a vacant schoolhouse into a campus for university students. They can come to the countryside and do remote learning. The added value will be that we can provide daily English lessons. There will be an organic farm for students to grow the food they will eat. The students can volunteer in the community as farm help, coach sports to the local kids or help the seniors. In exchange the seniors can pass along their knowledge such as traditional dance, woodworking and cooking. The facility will be powered by a micro hydropower turbine and solar panels. Hopefully, this idea can become a reality. After the global pandemic, please come and visit Niyodogawa-cho and let’s have a craft beer by the river!

Bobby Okinaka is a member of the Chiiki Okoshi Kyoryokutai Program in Niyodogawa-cho, Kochi Prefecture. He is on a three-year mission to help revitalize the Japanese countryside. You can find him on Instagram at slowinjapan. For tourism information about our area, please visit: https://niyodoblue.jp/en/ Domo!

by Ngo Tu Thanh (Frank Tu)

Social Media (Social Networking Service or SNS in Japanese) like Instagram, Youtube, Twitter or Facebook have become an important part of our everyday life. SNS are even mentioned in policy documents about rural revitalization and urban-rural migration in Japan. For our project on urban-rural migration and rural revitalization in four prefectures in Kyushu I have analyzed the Comprehensive Strategy for Communities, People and Work in Fukuoka and Nagasaki prefecture. SNS appeared as one strategy to disseminate information (jōhō hasshin) about the prefectures, tourism, local products and support for in-migrants among many other things.

Both Fukuoka and Nagasaki prefectures highlight the use of SNS as an important strategy to attract tourists or in-migrants. For instance, the plan of Nagasaki prefecture states that Nagasaki will publish footage of young people working in Nagasaki on Twitter and Instagram to attract young people to move to the prefecture. It will also disseminate information about migration on Facebook and LINE that appeals to Nagasaki natives who have moved to other places, particularly during times when they return home like Obon and New Year’s to inspire them to think about return migration (U-turn). SNS are also considered an important tool to showcase the charm of Nagasaki’s fisheries on YouTube, to promote local products and to attract foreign tourists from China, Korea, Vietnam, and Thailand [1].

Similarly, the Comprehensive Strategy of Fukuoka prefecture entails a strategy called “Disseminate information effectively” which states that Fukuoka prefecture aims to further enhance the recognition of the prefecture’s name, and thereby to attract visitors from Southeast Asia, Australia, and Western countries. In order to do so, Fukuoka’s plan suggest to make use of various digital means of communication, such as popular tourism websites or SNS to disseminate information that appeals to tourists [2].

The use of SNS for rural revitalization was also a recurrent topic in my interviews with three Chiikiryoku Sōzō Advisor for the Ministry of Internal Affairs and Communications. That said, all the three advisors were skeptical of this strategy. For instance, one of them was an advisor in his early forties whose expertise lies in the fields of videography, copywriting and marketing. He has been creating promotional videos to help municipalities showcase their strengths to attract visitors and newcomers. He points out that although many videos have been posted on YouTube, no one watches them. Thus, he prefers advertising his promotional videos on specialized websites or making DVD copies and to distribute them to students who are doing job-hunting. Moreover, he is skeptical about how municipalities evaluate the effectiveness of such promotional efforts. In particular, he wonders whether the number of views could really reflect the success of a video, if, despite having many views, it does not really attract newcomers (interview in October 2021).

The other two advisors who are much older than the advisor mentioned above shared this critical view of SNS. One repeatedly mentioned that efforts to publish footage or photos on Instagram and Facebook do not create any substantive impacts on rural revitalization while the other stated that although there are people who disseminate information on Facebook, such information is just “words” not “actions” and does not necessarily lead to real impacts on rural revitalization (interviews in September and October 2021 respectively).

The ubiquity of SNS in everyday life renders social media an inevitable topic in today’s discourse on regional revitalization. Nevertheless, given their rather recent integration into rural revitalization policies and strategies, it will take time to adequately evaluate the impact of SNS on rural Japan and its revitalization. I will follow up this question as I proceed with my PhD project.

References:
[1]
Nagasaki Prefecture (2020). Dai ni ki Nagasaki Ken Machi, Hito, Shigoto Sōsei Sōgō Senryaku (Reiwa 2 nendo kaitei ban). Available at: https://www.pref.nagasaki.jp/shared/uploads/2021/04/1617856105.pdf

[2]
Fukuoka Prefecture (2020). Dai ni ki Fukuoka Ken jinkō bijon, Chihō Sōsei Sōgō Senryaku. Available at: https://www.pref.fukuoka.lg.jp/uploaded/attachment/109804.pdf

by Hanno Jentzsch

Urban-rural migration in Japan is receiving increasing attention, and so is the question of how to define and to delineate urban and rural spaces. As the answer to this question is ultimately a matter of perspective, I would like to briefly reflect on the contrast between the ethnographic and the political-administrative lens on “rural” Japan.

Facing ongoing socio-economic decline in large parts of non-metropolitan Japan, the central government is actively trying to get young urbanites to move (or move back) to rural areas. One of the most prominent initiatives in this context is the chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai (COKT) scheme, which provides successful applicants between 20 and 45 years with a steady income for up to three years to set up a project (a café, a farm, or any other activity to “revitalize” the area) and hopefully a new life in the countryside. According to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, about 5,500 persons were active under the COKT program in 2020, and the ministry hopes to increase their number to 8,000.[1] COKT members are often (although not exclusively) featured in ethnographic accounts of urban-rural migration. Susanne Klien frames her interviewees as “lifestyle migrants”, who seek to escape the pressures of a demanding, but increasingly unstable system of “lifelong” regular employment in metropolitan Japan. Rural areas, in contrast, appear as to some extent malleable spaces of experimentation and opportunity for young urbanites seeking “self-realization”. Klien and others have thus captured urban-rural lifestyle migration as a process that is producing new, hybrid, and fluid forms of rurality, in which idealized notions of rural Japan intersect and not rarely clash with urban aspirations, “post-growth” values, and local norms and practices, for example regarding agriculture.[2]

The hybridization and fluidity emphasized in ethnographic accounts of urban-rural migration form an interesting contrast to the sharp boundaries drawn by government programs such as the COKT. Through this lens, rural areas are strictly delineated first and foremost by their eligibility for various development and revitalization programs, on top of which the COKT program constitutes an attempt to structure migration flows from metropolitan centers to “target” rural areas. To get an idea what this means in practice, let us zoom into Shimo-Ina district in southern Nagano, where I did field research on civil society-state relations in 2017 and 2018. It is a beautiful area with tall mountains and deep, green valleys – a paradise for mountain bikers, but remote and rapidly aging. The tiny village of Ōshika currently seeks a COKT member to help develop the local (biking) tourism industry. In the words of a former colleague, who moved to the neighboring city of Iida for a similar task a few years ago, it is a dream job for anybody who seeks to turn a hobby into a meaningful occupation. It comes with free housing, reasonable working hours, and a monthly salary of 225,000 Yen. However, not all young bike enthusiasts can apply. Applicants must currently reside in one of the three “metropolitan areas” shutoken, chukyoken, and kinkiken, including the prefectures Tokyo, Chiba, Kanagawa, Saitama, Gifu, Aichi, Osaka, Kyoto, Nara, Mie, and Hyōgo. Applicants from other prefectures must currently reside in an urban area (toshi chiiki). Residents of non-urban areas are excluded.

What “non-urban” means is defined by a total of seven laws to support disadvantaged areas, most importantly the Kaso law, under which officially designated “rapidly depopulating areas” (kaso chiiki) – i.e., areas that display above-average population decline and below-average fiscal strength – are eligible for a wide array of redistributive measures. The list is completed by programs with similar purposes, such as the “Okinawa Special Promotion Law” or the “Peninsula Promotion Law”. The Kaso law alone currently applies to 820 of Japan’s 1718 municipalities – more than 60% of Japan’s total area, but only about 8% of the population.[3]

The state’s objective to define a clearly delineated set of “sending” and “receiving” (or rather:  deserving?) rural areas to structure migration flows is clear. The consequences, however, can be quite odd. For example, while a person residing in the depopulating village of Toyone in the rural north of the “metropolitan” Aichi Prefecture is eligible for the job in Ōshika Village, a person residing in central Iida – the largest city in southern Nagano with about 100.000 inhabitants – cannot apply, since Iida is officially designated as a “partly depopulating” municipality under the law. Such a person could, of course (and likely will at some point), move to Tokyo for a regular job anytime. In any case, sharp boundaries drawn through political programs and/or administrative divisions are obviously limited to delineate rural and urban spaces in Japan (and elsewhere). They are, however, still crucial to understand rural-urban migration, and rural “revitalization” in general, as a political project that is fundamentally about who (and which area) gets what kind of support in the ongoing redistribution of resources and people across Japan’s increasingly unequal socio-spatial landscape.

Hanno Jentzsch is Assistant Professor at the Department of East Asian Studies/Japanese Studies, University of Vienna. He works on the politics of revitalization, administrative restructuring, agricultural reform, and social welfare in (mostly) rural Japan. He is the author of “Harvesting State Support” (University of Toronto Press) and co-edited the volume “Rethinking Locality in Japan” (Routledge, with Sonja Ganseforth).

References

[1]
https://www.soumu.go.jp/main_sosiki/jichi_gyousei/c-gyousei/02gyosei08_03000066.html

[2]
See e.g., Klien, Susanne. 2020. Urban Migrants in Rural Japan. Between Agency and Anomie in a Post-Growth Society. Albany: State University of New York Press; Reiher, Cornelia. 2020. ‘Embracing the Periphery: Urbanites’ Motivations for Relocating to Rural Japan’. In Japan’s New Ruralities, ed. Wolfram Manzenreiter, Ralph Lützeler and Sebastian Polak-Rottmann. Abingdon, Oxon, New York, NY: Routledge: 230–244.

[3]
http://www.kaso-net.or.jp/

by Sarah Bijlsma

Demographic issues like aging and depopulation in rural Japan are intertwined with the geographical features of remote areas. In most cases, the less accessible a region is, the more pressing the situation becomes. This is particularly striking in remote island regions (ritō). Small island populations are highly dependent on the educational, economic, and healthcare facilities of other areas, but their mobility is limited due to high costs and long travel times. Therefore, revitalization policies treat remote islands as a separate category. The framework of “remote islands” was first introduced in 1953 in the context of the Remote Islands Development Act (Ritō shinkō-hō), hitherto the most important set of legislative measures aiming to support remote island regions in overcoming their disadvantages and barriers to development. The Act is revised every ten years, with recent revisions emphasizing the urgency for the development of human resources in addition to advancing tourist services and public works [1].

One of these remote islands is Miyakojima, located in between Okinawa Main Island and Taiwan. Over the past few years, the local government has approved a number of large-scale construction projects, like the Irabu Bridge (2015), Shimojishima Airport (2019), a munitions storage facility for the Japanese Self Defense Forces (2020), and a new government building that will be finalized later this year. These public works projects are an addition to the continuous construction of beach resorts on the island [2].

The reality of this situation is explained to me by Masato Tokura [4], a man in his late fifties who moved from Yokohama to a small village on Miyakojima. Masato worked his whole life for a major pharmaceutical company, decided to invest in the Chinese stock market at age 35, and retired early when he was 47 years old. He tells me he and his wife traveled the world to do free diving, which is what they love to do the most. Yet, as they did not find a sea more beautiful than the one surrounding Miyakojima, they decided to emigrate in 2013.

But Miyako changed tremendously in the years that followed. Where in 2013, annual visitor numbers were ca. 400,000, they topped one million in 2018 [3]. Also, while the island turned into a construction site, there were not enough local workers to carry out all of the work. Therefore, the Japanese construction companies that are largely in charge of the projects flew in their own employees. At first, the workers were hosted in vacant apartments, but soon all properties became occupied. Masato tells me that while it is illegal to raise rent with more than a certain percentage of the previous price, that is exactly what property owners did as construction companies pay for the housing of their employees in any case.

With the sharp increase of Japanese tourists, workers, and other migrants, local media introduced the term “Miyako Bubble” to capture the negative consequences of this trend. In 2019, the price of a rental unit on Miyako was about the same as in Tokyo, while local wages were less than half of the national average. As a result, many local residents were forced to leave their houses throughout the previous years. Masato tells me that especially young single men found themselves in great financial difficulties. Many of them left to one of Japanese metropoles, where rent is the same as on Miyako but at least salaries are higher.

Hence, the social fabric of Miyako-jima is not the same anymore as when Masato arrived. But to him, an even more pressing issue is the way how the environment of Miyako has been changing. He tells me that tourist resorts have the habit of discharging used water into the ocean that is full of chemicals and other toxins. Further, many tourists touch the corals or step on them when entering the sea. Masato gets obviously upset when he talks about how he witnessed the sea dying within a period of only five years. “I know many eco tourist initiatives in other countries, and the most important thing is always to keep the environment as it is. But in Japan, people only want to make money, even though everything will be destroyed in the end. Even if then, nobody will come to Miyako. It makes me so angry, I just do not want to see that anymore.”

Masato has been taking that last point literally; a year ago, he decided to buy a new apartment in Yokohama and moved back to his previous hometown. Now, he spends half of his time in the city, and half of the time on Miyako, in what he now calls his “holiday house.”

My conversation with Masato made me think of whether there is something like too much rural revitalization. In the case of Miyakojima, revitalization attempts did not just attract tourists and urbanite migrants, as in other areas in Japan. They also forced local residents out of the island. This illustrates, I believe, that rural revitalization is not just a matter of attracting human and financial capital, but also of fostering social and ecological equity. As such, it makes me wonder whose future it actually is that is being promoted through Miyakojima’s development strategies.

References
[1]
Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport, and Tourism. 2016. Ritō shinkō-hō/ritō shinkō-hō sekō-rei [Remote islands development act/order for enforcement of the remote islands development act]. Retrieved from https://www.mlit.go.jp/kokudoseisaku/chirit/kokudoseisaku_chirit_fr_000003.html

[2]
Japan Times. “Worker influx ignites Miyakojima rent bubble.” 22 April 2019, pp. 3.

[3]
Miyakojima City. 2020. “Miyakojima-shi no nyūiki kankōkyakusū suikeichi” [Estimation of Miyako Island’s incoming tourist numbers]. Via https://www.city.miyakojima.lg.jp/gyosei/toukei/files/R31201.pdf

[4] Masato Tokura is a pseudonym.

by Cornelia Reiher

Rural areas in Japan are connected with transnational networks in multiple ways. This transnational connectedness is not static, but can change over time as the example of Arita’s porcelain trade with Europe in the 17^th and the 19^th century shows. Transnational networks of the past can become an integral part of rural places’ history and identity and are often employed for the promotion of tourism and other revitalization strategies in the present [1]. In addition to these historical transnational connections, many non-Japanese citizens dwell in rural Japan. Some just stay there for a short period of time to study or work in Japan’s countryside, while others settle down, renovate abandoned houses, get married and raise children. Previous blog posts have already mentioned artists in residence from Europe, technical interns and members of the Chiiki okoshi kyoryokutai program from South- and Southeast Asia or Buddhist priests from England who reside in rural Japan. They all contribute to the revitalization of rural Japan in various ways and connect Japan’s rural towns and villages with other parts of the world.

But this is not the only way migration connects Japan’s rural areas transnationally. Many of the U-turn or I-turn migrants (and of course many of the long-term rural residents) have travelled and/or lived abroad before moving to the countryside. In her book on urban-rural migration, Susanne Klien [2] mentions that twenty of the 118 urban-rural migrants she worked with had lived abroad before. During my own research on urban-rural migration in Kyushu, I made a similar observation. One woman who now lives in Oita prefecture, for example, studied in Italy and fell in love with an Italian man. When their children were about to enter elementary school, the couple decided to relocate to Japan, because they wanted them to grow up in Japan. Although the Japanese wife is from a big city, they decided that they wanted to live closer to nature and relocated to a small town in the countryside where they now run an Italian restaurant, thereby contributing to the culinary diversity of the area.

Other urban-rural migrants are former members of overseas volunteer programs. These include programs initiated by the Japanese government like the Japan Overseas Cooperation Volunteers (JOCV) or by non-Japanese NGOs that provide assistance to developing countries via local projects. As of 2020, JOCV had dispatched 45,776 young Japanese between the ages of 20 and 39 to 98 countries for a period of two years [3]. Experiences abroad can contribute to greater awareness of social problems and inequality and to engagement for social change and a better world after volunteers’ return to Japan [4]. Based on this experience, some former volunteers want to contribute to the revitalization of Japan’s countryside. While participating in such volunteer programs in developing countries is evaluated as positive for the individual experience and growth of young Japanese adults and Japanese society, volunteers struggle with finding employment when they return to Japan [4,5]. This is one reason why many former volunteers move to the countryside and join another government sponsored program, the Chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai (COKT), that hires young adults who work in the countryside in Japan for three years and support local governments in activities aimed at rural revitalization [6].

These examples show how the mobility of people, their experiences and skills can impact Japan’s countryside, create and deepen transnational networks, inspire ideas and introduce new practices to the countryside. Instead of only focusing on urban-rural migrants and the migration from urban areas to rural areas within Japan, research on urban-rural migration should pay more attention to previous mobility experiences of urban-rural migrants to fully understand their impact on rural Japan and their migration trajectories.

References

[1]
Reiher, Cornelia (2014), Lokale Identität und ländliche Revitalisierung. Die japanische Keramikstadt Arita und die Grenzen der Globalisierung [Local Identity and Rural Revitalization. The Japanese Ceramic Town Arita and the Limits of Globalization], Bielefeld: transcript.

[2]
Klien, S. (2020), Urban Migrants in Rural Japan: Between Agency and Anomie in a Post-Growth Society, New York: SUNY Press.

[3]
JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency) (2020), JICA Volunteer Program: Leading the World with Trust, https://www.jica.go.jp/english/publications/brochures/c8h0vm0000avs7w2-att/jica_volunteer_ en.pdf, last accessed October 30, 2021.

[4]
Iwai, Y. (2010), “Borantia taiken de gakusei wa nani o manabu no ka: Afurika to jibun o tsunageru sōzōryoku” [What Students Learn through Social Service Experiences: Awareness of the Connection Between Themselves and Africa], Hosei daigaku ningen kankyō gakkai [The Hosei Journal of Humanity and Environment] 10, pp. 1–11.

[5]
Kawachi, K. (2013), Constructing Notions of Development: An Analysis of the Experiences of Japan Overseas Cooperation Volunteers and the Peace Corps in Latin America and Their Interaction with Indigenous Communities in Ecuadorian Highlands, University of Texas [PhD dissertation].

[6]
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.

by Wendy Wuyts

My Japanese and Belgian friend Miwako came to visit me in Nagoya in January 2018. She lived mostly in Belgium, but she was visiting family and friends in Tokyo and decided to visit me on her way to Onomichi, a place that I had not heard of before. Miwako is a filmmaker, whose short movies are about identity, home and family. Her personal documentary project was about the history of an empty family house in Onomichi. She showed me photographs of this beautiful traditional house and mentioned that it was used for commercials (as Onomichi is apparently a town with artists and filmmakers). She also told me about the town. Onomichi is a rural town characterized by industry and art.

Ten days later, my friend greeted me in the train station of Onomichi. We walked in different alleys, some of which she did not know yet, and we peeked inside long abandoned houses. It was strange to walk in these wastescapes. It almost felt apocalyptic. By walking there, I could understand why people would not remove these empty constructions, because some houses were not accessible via roads suitable for motorized vehicles. The paths were narrow, steep and partly stairs.

We had lunch in a renovated house which was abandoned before. I heard about an NPO and activist movement that reclaims abandoned houses, the cultural heritage and identity of this place. I contacted them; but they had no time and asked me to come back later. That would be the start of getting to know this place and its lived experiences of the circularity potential of wastescapes for the next 1,5 years.

When I first visited Onomichi, I had already lived in Japan for almost four months, more specifically in Nagoya, one of the largest, more conservative cities in Japan. To most people outside of Japan, Nagoya means nothing, so I usually introduce it as the city of Toyota. I spent three years in Nagoya working on my PhD in sustainability. Due to my encounter with Onomichi, the wasted potential of short-lived and vacant houses became the focus of my project which I approached through the concept of circular economy. Circular economy is an umbrella term for practices, principles, and ideas that ensure that we keep materials in society for as long as possible and that the value or functionality is preserved for as long as possible [1].

In Nagoya, my professor was researching empty houses as well, but his focus was rather on the reuse of abandoned houses’ materials, also called urban mining [3]. However, what I came to realize was that urban mining would not be the most desirable strategy: repurposing the houses, preferably for the intent they are made for, would be more circular, and would also be better in terms of identity, belonging and other social impacts. When my friend Miwako introduced me to Onomichi, which seemed to be an appealing place for her as an artist to learn more about identity, I was intrigued. The geographer in me was interested in the context of Japan and what circularity could mean in reality and which social impacts, for example on identity, it can have. Often, we talk about circularity as an abstract concept, but what exactly are the lived experiences of circularity [4]? What does it mean for people who really reclaim empty houses? What are the barriers and challenges in Japan?

Later, during a revision of my PhD thesis, one of my supervisors asked me about the motivation of selecting Onomichi as a casestudy. “I did not choose it, it just came to visit me”, I wanted to say. The same is true for another study in Gifu that I will introduce in my next post. As a researcher, we have our networks and other resources, and this influences our knowledge production (and biases) a big deal, while allowing to illustrate the plurality of Japan in research.

References:
[1]
Kirchherr, J., Reike, D. and Hekkert, M., 2017. Conceptualizing the circular economy: An analysis of 114 definitions. Resources, conservation and recycling, 127, pp.221-232.
[2]
Tanikawa, H. and Hashimoto, S., 2009. Urban stock over time: spatial material stock analysis using 4d-GIS. Building research & information, 37(5-6), pp.483-502.
[3]
Wuyts, W., Sedlitzky, R., Morita, M. and Tanikawa, H., 2020. Understanding and Managing Vacant Houses in Support of a Material Stock-Type Society—The Case of Kitakyushu, Japan. Sustainability, 12(13), p.5363.
[4]
Wuyts, W., Marjanović, M. The Development of Spatial Circularity Discourse in Japan: Ecomodernist, Territorialised, or Both? The Story of Onomichi’s Wastescapes. Circ.Econ.Sust. (2022). https://doi.org/10.1007/s43615-021-00146-6

Wendy Wuyts, originally from Belgium, received her PhD in environmental science from the Graduate School of Environmental Studies, Nagoya University. She currently works as researcher in the Norwegian University of Science and Technology. Her research interests include (social impacts of) circularity, sustainable transitions and territorial ecology.

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Happy holidays.