by Nakako Hattori-Ishimaru

Ishigaki-shi, Japan’s southernmost city with a population of about 50,000 people, is located on Ishigaki-jima. The semi-tropical Yaeyama islands, the main island of Okinawa, Tokyo and other areas are connected by this transportation hub, which has attracted tourists and migrants. On the location of a former golf grounds, conservative city mayor Nakayama Yoshitaka claimed in 2016 that he had reached an agreement with the Ministry of Defense to build a new camp for the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force (JGSDF). Ever since, Yamazato Setsuko (born in 1937), a native of the island, has been leading the weekly standing protests against the military facility development. For the members’ average age of 74, the group is named the Ishigaki Grannies’ Society to Protect Life and Livelihood (Ishigaki no kurashi to inochi o mamoru obā tachi no kai). As the name suggests, Yamazato san’s actions go beyond just opposing the establishment of a military base. Years of continuous public protests can be time- and energy- consuming, and even sour relations within small communities. But why does Yamazato san feel the need to engage in peace activism so strongly?

I first learned about Yamazato san through a YouTube video that showed her and her fellow protesters chanting in Ishigaki Port in March 2023. They were protesting against the missiles that had been brought to and installed at the recently constructed Ishigaki Camp without the locals’ permission. In the following year, the documentary film director, Mikami Chie, published the film Ikusa-fumu (The War Clouds), which illustrates how the state-driven fortification efforts since the mid-2010s had gradually and dramatically altered rural societies and landscapes of the southwestern areas of Okinawa, including Ishigaki. Prominent locals are shown in this film, including Yamazato san, who is crucial to native narratives. During my first fieldwork in Okinawa in 2023, I had the opportunity to meet Yamazato san at her home. During a follow-up visit, I attended the documentary film’s premiere screening in Naha. The screening was followed by a talk with the director, where Yamazato san made an appearance as a speaker. Her journey as an activist demonstrates a deep commitment to her native island which runs through her professional endeavors and her personal worldview.

The motivation for Yamazato san’s lifelong commitment to protect island life has been a deep sense of regret. She is from a farming family and after the Pacific War on Ishigaki-jima in 1945, she and her grandmother were the only two survivors of their eight-person family. The years during the post-war American occupation were “another battlefield for survival” (interview with the author in September 2023). Nevertheless, in 1955, she was able to secure a respectable position with the U.S. Military Geology Survey (USGS) as a local field assistant. Leading the survey was female geologist Dr. Helen Foster, who recognized Yamazato san’s strength and appreciated her advice to safeguard the team from natural dangers. In return, the young Yamazato san gained valuable work experiences: She improved her English skills, learned how to collect data, took a jeep to all the creeks on the island and spent some time in Tokyo to finish the colored maps that were to be sent to Washington. Her interests, however, gradually turned towards reviving the traditional lifestyles she had learnt firsthand from her grandmother. These included farming, writing songs in regional ballad forms and recovering the customs of local silk weavers.

In the late 1970s, she was involved in an environmental movement to oppose a plan of new airport construction on the Shiraho Shore, which would have devastated the rich coral reef. While researching the project’s background, she was shocked to discover that the blueprint was based on the geological inquiry she was working on. “I still feel a strong deal of regret for what I did back then. Even though I was working for a salary, I was contributing to a process that would eventually result in the destruction of my native island” (interview with the author in September 2023). She then understood that any significant initiatives for external development on Ishigaki-jima are inevitably linked to military objectives. In 1989, the group appealed to the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) to lobby the Japanese Government, whereupon construction of the airport was halted but moved to another location on the island. She considers this to be only a partial victory as their ultimate goal was to stop construction completely.

Yamazato san’s lifelong exposures to various foreign institutions gave her profound ideas for protecting her native land. When I asked her to define peace, her answer was clear: the ability to pass on her inherited way of lifestyle and livelihood to future generations. The quality of peace, she is seeking for, is to preserve her ancestral homeland as intact as possible. Developmentalism is often linked to state-led military buildup in order to counteract rural depopulation. On Ishigaki-shi’s 75^th city anniversary, Mayor Nakayama proudly declared in July 2023 that the population had surpassed 50,000, citing the deployment of Camp Ishigaki in addition to general local economic revitalization as the primary drivers (Ryūkyū Shinpō 2023). Countering this dominant discourse of a military-driven economic boom, Yamazato san and her friends warned that the military bases have the potential to take away local autonomy once again. And Yamazato san is aware that many people on the island morally support her group’s protests despite the fact that they appear to be alone when they protest on the street.

References:

Haino, Akira (2022), “Tokushū otome-tachi no sensō 3: Setsu-chan oba no sensō (Special Series: The war of the maidens No.3: Setsuko grandma’s war),” Gekkan YAIMA 334, 6, pp.14-25.

Mikami, Chie (2024), “Ikusa-fumu: Yōsaika suru Okinawa, Shimajima no Kiroku (War clouds: The fortification of Okinawa and its records on the islands),” Tokyo: Shūeisha Shinsho.

Mikami, Chie (2024), “Ikusa-fumu(War Clounds) (Documentary Film)” 2024, https://ikusafumu.jp/ (retrieved on 3 July 2024).

Oaten, James, Lisa McGregor, and Yumi Asada (2003), “There is no end of war for us,“ ABC News, https://www.abc.net.au/news/2023-02-16/japan-ishigaki-military-base-remilitarisation-counter-china/101869542 (retrieved on 3 July 2024).

Ryūkyū Shinpō,  ”Ishigaki-shi no jinkō ga gomannin o toppa”(The Ishigaki City population has exceeded 50,000)” on 10 July 2023, https://ryukyushimpo.jp/news/entry-1744966.html, (retrieved on 9 July 2024).

Nakako Hattori Ishimaru (nakako.hattori2@fu-berlin.de) is a research assistant at the Institute of Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin (FUB) and a doctoral candidate at the Graduate School of East Asian Studies (GEAS). Her main research interests include international cooperation, welfare states, security politics of Japan, war-peace narratives and collective identity formation. 

It’s very hot in Berlin and our team is going on vacation for a few weeks. The blog will be back up on August 9. Thank you for supporting our blog and our activities. Have a wonderful summer.

Cornelia Reiher

by Cornelia Reiher

The image of rural Japan as a place where people can live in harmony with nature, raise their children in safety and live in a close-knit social community is conveyed through various media. For many urban-rural migrants, images and stories shared by friends or strangers on social media became one of the many incentives to move to the countryside. And when I had to postpone my fieldwork in Japan during the Covid-19 pandemic, the beautiful images of rice fields, picnics, the mountains and the sea shared on social media provided solace and became the object of my longing at the same time.

However, when scrolling through numerous Instagram accounts, I noticed that the depictions of the countryside often were quite similar in style. Most of them adapted to the changing seasons, showing flowers and trees, children and old people as well as everyday scenes. The profiles of businesses were often a mixture of personal stories about their owners and information about the business itself, blurring the line between private and public profiles. As a newcomer to Instagram, I had assumed that most people took the pictures they post themselves, but when I finally went to Japan, I learned two things: first, the fancy pictures on Instagram are a bit prettier than reality. Second, most of the pictures posted on Instagram were taken by professional photographers and carefully curated.

One of the photographers I met is an urban-rural migrant herself. Her work as a freelance photographer made it possible for her to move to the countryside. The other photographer is a young man from one of the cities where I conducted my field research. For him, photography was a way to stay in his hometown and earn a living. Both photograph for local artists, food stores, hostels or farmers, but also take family portraits for special occasions such as weddings or Shichi-Go-San, a traditional Japanese rite of passage and festival for three- and seven-year-old girls, five-year-olds and sometimes three-year-old boys, which takes place every year on November 15 to celebrate the growth and well-being of children.  Many of these images are posted via Instagram, either by their clients or on their own profiles, which also serve to showcase their work and attract new clients.

Yuri (pseudonym) is from Kansai and is in her early 30s. During the pandemic, she was able to work from home and went on “workations.” She visited several places in Japan, including Okinawa, to work. By chance, she met someone who recommended one of my field sites in Kyushu, and she looked at the Instagram profile of an accommodation there. She was fascinated by these pictures, because they gave her a warm feeling and the impression of “being at home.” She immediately contacted the accommodation, visited it twice for a short workation and finally moved there in 2023. Many of her photographs now appear on her hosts’ Instagram profile, she gives lectures on photography and continues to work remotely for a company in Kansai and take freelance photography assignments across Japan.

Takumi (pseudonym) is in his mid-20s and has always lived in his hometown. He decided to attend a university nearby, and when he graduated, he realized that he would like to live and work in his hometown. He has always been interested in photography, but never thought he could earn a living from it. Through contacts with artists, he learned that there are people who live in the countryside but also work for clients in the city and make a living from their art. He got his first commission through a friend, and since then he has been booked by local businesses and families, but also has commissions outside his home prefecture. In addition to his commissioned work, he also photographs the everyday lives of locals and has had several exhibitions showing his work. Many of his photographs are shared on Instagram.

The promotional material provided by rural prefectures and cities aimed at attracting new residents often only reaches a small number of people, but Yuri and Takumi’s pictures on Instagram have a much larger audience. A local government official told me that self-promotion of the experiences of urban-rural migrants in the countryside through social media is much more effective than the videos of local or prefectural governments distributed through YouTube or their official websites. For Yuri, who was attracted to the countryside by images others shared on Instagram, and who now produces and shares such images herself, this is the magic of social media.

by Anne-Sophie L. König

The cold was slowly creeping through my jeans on a cold February day in 2023 as I tried to keep my balance sitting on a bridge railing, while writing down field notes. I had just come from an hour-long interview with the chairman of the village assembly of Minamiyamashiro in Kyōto Prefecture and I did not want to forget anything he had said. As part of my doctoral thesis on the phenomenon of candidate shortage (narite busoku) in local elections, I wanted to find out why there is a shortage of candidates in all towns in the area except for Minamiyamashiro.

I first came across Minamiyamashiro when I checked the voter turnout in the towns and villages of Kyōto Prefecture during my research stay in Japan from 2022 to 2023. Looking at the map of Kyōto municipalities, I noticed a pattern. The shape of the prefecture looks like a European dragon, with Kyōtango city in the southwest as the dragon’s head, then in the stubby tail that stretches far into the mountains between Nara, Shiga and Mie prefectures in the northeast lies Sōraku district with Minamiyamashiro. In this spur, there are a number of towns where uncontested elections were held due to a lack of candidates, and at the border of the prefecture is Minamiyamashiro, the outlier. Between 2011 and 2024, there were five uncontested elections in Ide, one in Wazuka, four in Kasagi, while in Minamiyamashiro, voter turnout was between 69 and 81 percent over the same period. I found that strange. Why does the village furthest from the urban center have such a high voter turnout, while the neighboring communities struggle to hold an election at all? This is why I decided to contact all municipalities, and went to Minamiyamashiro and Kasagi for interviews. I reached the municipalities via train in about 2 and a half hours from Demachiyanagi station in Kyōto. In Kizu I boarded a cute little train running once every hour. Historically, all of the towns and the village focused on agriculture and forestry. One famous export product was tea, but tea production and agriculture remained as a main industry only in Minamiyamashiro. From the train following the flow of Kizu river the change from rice paddies to steep tea plantations is clearly visible. In summer, the producers offer a tea plantation experience with a guided tour through the processing facilities.

In Kasagi, many people began to commute to the larger town of Kizu or further afield to work in the industry. Ecotourism also gained traction with a larger campground and climbing areas at the famous boulders located at the mouth of a gorge carved by the Kizu River. Kasagi used to have a different clientele, as evidenced by the closed onsen hotel uphill from the boulders, but those days sadly seem to be over. There is a good network of hiking trails in the mountains that follow the stream of Kizu River, and on winter mornings you have a breathtaking view of the so-called unkai – the sea of clouds – that covers the valley. When I climbed up to Kasagi Temple, the sun was bright in the sky and I could clearly see Kasagi from above. The temple is really worth a visit because of the impressively large Buddhas carved in stone and the beautiful rock formations.

In the low season, the communities in Sōraku are a little short of cafés and restaurants. This is why I decided to start writing down my field notes on a bridge in the cold February. Later, I found food and a warm spot in a bentō delivery store run by a U-turn migrant who used to work for the Kyōto city government. He wanted to leave the bustling city and do something meaningful in his hometown. After work, he sat down with me while I ate and talked about life and politics in the village and in Sōraku district. He did not understand why his fellow villagers were so fired up at election time. Instead, he showed me some footage from the local TV station about migrants like him and pointed out that it’s not just about politics and tourism. Apart from his bentō business that caters to administration, tea producers and the elderly, there were some recent college graduates who had set up a wildlife farm to capitalize on the new culinary trends in the Kansai region. He wondered if people in Minamiyamashiro are simply more invested in village politics, as they are mostly tea farmers. Working and living in the same place as opposed to commuting, he assumes, naturally creates interest in affairs village.

In my doctoral thesis, I will dig deeper into the puzzle of the Sōraku district. As the district’s municipalities are quite small and their population is only in the low four-digit range. Therefore, the lack of candidates for political positions is a major problem. However, the communities are not only interesting case studies for my dissertation, the visit there also gave me interesting insights into life in the countryside, the challenges faced by the communities and the unpredictability of fieldwork. I can highly recommend a visit if you are interested in rural Japan, as the district is easily accessible even without a car. Moreover, if I somehow tickled your interest in the candidate shortage issue, I recommend staying tuned for my doctoral thesis!

References:

Seijiyama Minamiyamashiro (2024), Minamiyamashiro, https://seijiyama.jp/lgov/26/263672/

Kasagidera (2024), Kasagidera Temple, https://kasagidera.net/  

Anne-Sophie L. König is a doctoral candidate in Japanese Studies at the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München and a research associate in the DFG project “Demography and Democracy: How Population Ageing Changes Democracy – The Example of Japan”. Her research interests include politics in Japan with a focus on democracy studies and local politics. She can be reached at an.koenig@lmu.de.

by Lise Sasaki

In a rapidly ageing and depopulating society, Japanese women are facing unprecedented challenges to maintain their economic and social status. Their situation has worsened due to the increase in female unemployment in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic. Exacerbated by the pandemic, derailing career paths are typical experiences for women in Japanese society. On top of this, political and societal pressure to perform as working women and to fix the declining birth rate can be overwhelming for many women. In 2018, my engagement as a research assistant led me to Tosa-chō in Kōchi Prefecture, where domestic migrants (ijūsha), among them many women, have settled, started families and developed a sense of belonging. In a rapidly depopulating post-pandemic Japan, where women face the brunt of economic decline and are less likely than ever before to start families, I have been eager to understand why migrants move to rural areas to raise children. 

Tosa-chō is a town in Kochi Prefecture with about 3,500 residents. 40% of the population is aged 65 or older, and the population has declined by 50% over the past 40 years to 3,803 people (Tosa-chō 2020). This rural mountainous area is remote, with the nearest city, Kōchi City, one hour away. Tosa-chō’s population is widely scattered across the town’s 15 districts.Some of the more remote villages have fewer than 15 inhabitants. It is almost impossible to access some of these villages without a car, as they are located deep in the mountains, far away from the more populated villages in the valley. It can take more than one hour by car from some of these villages to a public facility such as a post office or town hall.

I have become close with a few ijūsha women who have moved to Tosa-chō for various reasons like seeking refuge after the Fukushima nuclear disaster in 2011, pursuing serenity amidst the pressures of urban living, and desiring healing within the lush green and the flowing waters of Tosa-chō. The town is known to have one of the most beautiful rivers in the country. While none of these ijūsha women expressed they had ‘lost’ themselves in their past urban city lives, it seemed Tosa-chō served as an avenue to cultivate an identity they were in search of. It became evident that their sense of belonging was nurtured through strong interpersonal connections. Ijūsha women viewed rural lifestyles as ideal, and while they envisioned a hybrid, tranquil lifestyle, they set out to connect to the land and the locals. This ideal life was most evident when I observed their kitchens, where migrant women chose old-fashioned kitchens over contemporary system kitchens. Utilizing the Kamado (Furnace Stoves) instead of gas stoves and handed down wooden cabinets instead of contemporary all-in-one cabinets exemplified their carefully constructed living spaces and atmospheres through cooking and homemaking.

Embraced warmly by older residents of the town, the newcomers are initiated into a culture rooted in communal care and mutual support, exemplified by practices such as osusowake (sharing food) and village rituals. I wondered whether their quest for belonging extended beyond mere communal ties to encompass a more profound yearning for love, nurturance and care bestowed by others. A recent conversation with a close friend who moved to Tosa-chō ten years ago to raise her children emphasized the importance of physical closeness in experiencing love. For her, love is felt deeply when you can touch and feel it, so that you sense intimacy and warmth. “In cities,” she said, “where is the time for each of us to feel this warmth between us?” In an increasingly digitalized society, she believes the virtual world somehow lacks emotional connection, perhaps because it is a physically individual activity that is not shared. But in Tosa-chō, the human-to-human connection remained and she was able to experience physical connections and empathy every day. At the same time, she also pointed out the tensions between the young ijūsha and the locals: “I love it here, I really do … but now that I’ve been here for almost 10 years, I sometimes feel the need to breathe.”  This statement and my own experiences in Tosa-chō made me think about the permanence of these social bonds. I experienced the rapid spread of information by word of mouth myself. If I ran into a friend at the market, a mutual friend would often check in with me a few minutes later and kindly remind me that the vegetables I had bought were cheaper at the farmer’s market three miles away. Stories and information seemed to spread faster and further, and I remember a sense of invasion of my personal space. Against this backdrop, I am curious to explore how ijūsha women achieve a balance between connectedness and autonomy as they navigate the complexities of belonging in Tosa-chō. I am particularly interested in the shifting forms of belonging in this digitalized society, to explore the ways in which rural life is dissolving into new ways of living that provide a sense of healing for ijūsha women.

References

Kōchi Prefecture Tosa-chō Home Page (2020). Tosa chō. Retrieved from http://www.town.tosa.kochi.jp/ Last accessed May 2024.

Lise Sasaki is a freelance researcher who has worked on projects at UCL Anthropology and Osaka University. Her research explores the redefinition of female identity and its implications for motherhood in contemporary Japan.

by Cecilia Luzi

Despite similar structural conditions, rural Japan is incredibly diverse, and the encounter between a place and a migrant can create unique opportunities that are influenced by the socio-economic and historical context of the place, as well as the individual inspirations and personal connections of the migrants. I will illustrate this with the example of Hannah’s migratory experience. I met Hannah on a cloudy afternoon under the cherry blossoms in Hasami Public Park in the spring of 2023. We were organizing a hanami with our children, and she joined us after picking up her daughters from kindergarten. Originally from Germany, Hannah came to Japan over ten years ago to learn pottery and improve her skills in Arita, the neighboring town of Hasami.  She has not left Kyūshū since. While at school, Hannah met Isamu, a fellow student from Kumamoto Prefecture, who later became her husband. Together they moved to Hasami, where she began working in the workshop of a renowned potter in the arts and crafts district of Nakaoyama. Today, she runs a very successful small ceramics studio in Hasami together with her husband.

Like Arita, Hasami has a rich history of industrial pottery production that has profoundly shaped the town’s socio-economic structure. Older residents, aged 80 and above, recall times when pottery permeated every aspect of town life, from the extraction of kaolin to the decoration of the finished pieces. Unlike the high-quality porcelain of neighboring Arita, Hasami’s ceramics have always been intended for everyday use. As a result, identical designs were produced by numerous kilns scattered throughout the municipality, encouraging cooperation rather than competition between kilns. Even today, smaller family-run kilns exist alongside larger companies, forming a tight-knit community around ceramic production. This environment offers both the population and institutions the opportunity to support small and young artisans so that they can maintain their activity. Also, and more importantly, it has laid the ground for the creation of a basic working infrastructure in recent decades, such as the akikōbo bank, a website similar to akiya banks that provides information on free workshops or other business ventures, or the Ceramic Research Center of Nagasaki Prefecture (Nagasaki ken yōgyō gijutsu sentā) among many exposition venues and shops.

It was therefore easier for Hannah and Isamu to set up their own workshop and settle in Hasami after completing their studies in Arita. They set up their first pottery workshop with the help of the akikōbo bank. In Hasami, I met other migrants who had similar experiences. In our conversations, I often felt how big Hannah’s decision was and how determined she was to pursue her dreams in Hasami, even though it is so remote. Over the past few years, Isamu and Hannah have managed to purchase a plot of land, build their new house and recently inaugurated a new workshop directly below their house on the same plot of land they purchased. As we talked, Hannah reflected on how her life had turned out, occasionally wondering how it would have turned out if she hadn’t held on to her dream of becoming a potter in rural Japan. Nevertheless, she decided to make Hasami her home.

I think it’s more than just the furusato idea and the rural idyll that romanticizes rural Japan as a nostalgic space that attracts young, determined people today. The migrants I met are very self-aware and self-reflective; when they move, they know that life in rural Japan is a challenge and that it will not be easy there. Yet each place in their stories represents different dreams. The communities they eventually move to have great significance for them and their lives. Sometimes they pay great attention to the choice of place and associate it with hopes for their future lives, even if they do not plan to stay forever. For them, rural Japan is not just an indeterminate space or a furusato in itself, but each place represents the potential for a future life. In this sense, Hasami has a special attraction for potters and all activities related to pottery and pottery tourism.

by Lynn Ng

I have been skeptical of Japan’s education system for years after I taught at a rural high school for three years and saw the rigid barriers to holistic learning. When I saw the multi-million dollar construction project of Yume no Mori, a new public school for children aged 0 to 15 in the town of Okuma, hidden in the former Fukushima nuclear exclusion zone, in January 2023, I was skeptical. After all, what good is an expensive campus project if the education system is no different to that of other schools?

Yet, one year later, I stand deeply corrected. In 2024, I sat in on a class where two students were practicing English with their two teachers in a bright open classroom in Yume no Mori. “We want to extend, this is a rare chance to speak more English,” a student confidently tells the teacher at the end of the first session. Despite their looming high school entrance examinations, to which the second-half of the class was initially dedicated, these two students held no hesitation in expressing what they wanted for their education, which was to practice non-textbook, non-examination English. In fact, at Yume no Mori, there are no “teachers,” only “designers” that help students design the education that best suits their needs. The students thus become highly engaged in classes, for each activity is catered to their interests and abilities. The students are not bound to grade-levels or classrooms, but rather have open spaces all around the campus – including multiple nooks at the library and outdoor playgrounds – where they can decide to have their classes take place. Students wear no standardized attire, and neither do the “designers.”

Furthermore, the manager’s (Vice-Principal) passion and enthusiasm for this school and its students is clearly palpable. Dressed in a casual, smart jacket and T-shirt, he led us through the huge grounds with a large, open central library and several oddly shaped classrooms on two levels, while talking to each student as if they were his own children. He knows each student’s personality intimately, telling us stories of kids who used to skip school and now want to come to school every day, and he is proud of the students’ individual academic achievements.

By the end of the visit, I had come to the realization that the Yume no Mori model only works in a rural environment. A rural privilege, so to speak. In Japan’s rural environment, Yume no Mori offers its students not only plenty of space for leisure activities, but also for quiet corners for reading and studying or for a short nap. Students can easily share the same room in this large building without disturbing each other while studying. The low student-teacher ratio (29 students and 17 teachers) ensures that each student’s educational needs are optimally met and that students can build their academic and social confidence with their “learning designers.”

As I walked through the hallways of Yume no Mori that day, watching the children meaningfully engage in their learning environment and interact with their peers and designers, I felt an epiphany – the brief and intense understanding of that “hope” and future that my research participants often speak of. In Yume no Mori, I can so easily see in these children’s future potential: people who have mastered their art and are confidently putting their ideas out into the world. As I signed off the visitor list, I felt a deep stab of envy and sadness. I didn’t want to leave. A planned one-hour visit had turned into four, and yet I wanted to stay longer in the calming space of Yume no Mori. I can see the potential of Yume no Mori to encourage young people and attract young families to the region, thus repopulating the town. But more than that, I am rooting for the school, its leaders and designers and the next generation of talent that will emerge from this place.

by Satoru Yamamoto

The expansion of telework during the COVID-19 pandemic has provided an unexpected opportunity to advance migration from big cities to rural areas and to counteract the aging and shrinking populations in Japan’s countryside. The primary barrier to urban-rural migration is the lack of jobs in rural areas. Therefore, migration through telework or “telework migration” has been promoted as one of the national policies since the early 2000s. However, telework was limited before COVID-19, and the policy did not have a marked effect. Telework migration to rural areas only began to emerge in the early fall of 2020, and it was mainly people from Tokyo who relocated to the countryside. On the other hand, non-telework migration, which requires securing a job in a new location, had already been on the rise after the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011. Currently, with the addition of telework migration, urban-rural migration has developed into a kind of boom. According to the Furusato Kaiki Shien Center [1], the number of consultation cases for migration in 2023 was approximately 59,300, a record high [2]. However, the main feature of urban-rural migration after COVID-19, apart from the increase in the number of migrants, is a qualitative change.

During COVID-19, I interviewed 16 migrants in Yamaguchi Prefecture. As a result, I could observe the differences in the motivations between non-telework migrants and telework migrants. First, I present three samples of non-telework migrants from Tokyo. A farmer in his thirties said: “I had a strong desire to escape somewhere completely different from where I had lived before and cut off my life to restart from scratch.” A museum concierge in her twenties told me: “I couldn’t see myself in this fast-paced life in Tokyo anymore. So I came here because I had a job I wanted to do.” And finally, a ceramic artist in his 50s stated: “I was not comfortable with a life that only took place in my imagination. I had a desire to live in reality, to experience life, and so I started training in pottery here.” These quotes show that non-telework migrants desire to reset their lives and achieve self-realization through work. This motivates their relocation. This is a trend that has started before the COVID-19 pandemic and continues.

Secondly, I present three samples of telework migrants whom I asked about their motivation to move to Yamaguchi Prefecture. They did not mention a desire or a resolution to reset their lives. A marketer in his twenties told me: “My work is no different from what I was doing in Tokyo. Therefore, my income hasn’t decreased. However, since moving here, my cost of living has decreased by 20%.” Another reason for the relocation of telework migrants is their family situation. An IT-engineer in his forties said: “My main reason is childcare. There are much better facilities in Tokyo than in Yamaguchi, but I’m sure, for children, the relaxed environment here is better.” And a consultant in his forties explained that he prefers a mobile lifestyle: “I don’t believe it is necessary to be rooted in a particular region. For me, it’s easier to feel like I’m living temporarily, like a long-term workcation.” Telework migrants migrate to rural areas where the cost of living is lower and keep their higher income from their jobs in the big city. It is a simple change of residence (hikkoshi) in search of a comfortable living environment and an ideal lifestyle. And some migrants have a more mobile sense of place than others.

While non-teleworking migrants tend to view migration as a particular life choice based on the decision to change their lifestyle and their job, teleworking migrants tend to view it as a familiar and rational life choice without a decision to radically change their lives. The main reason for this is that their place of work is not directly linked to the place of residence. One migration consultant described this qualitative change as “a situation in which the word ‘migration’ (ijū) no longer seems appropriate.” [3] Furthermore, one researcher pointed out that many traditional migration policies implemented by local governments no longer work [4]. Certainly, it is not easy for local governments to manage two types of migration with different motivations and forms of mobility in parallel. However, I am convinced that telework migration is essential for the preservation and revitalization of rural areas where attractive high-income jobs are scarce. Therefore, local governments must adapt to the qualitative change caused by the Covid-19 pandemic.

References:

[1] Furusato Kaiki Shien Center is an NPO that works with local governments to provide consultation and support for urban-rural migration: https://www.furusatokaiki.net/

[2] The Furusatokaiki Shien Center, News-Release, 27/02/2024,

https://www.furusatokaiki.net/wp/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/webnews_furusatokaiki_ranking_2023.pdf

[3] Based on an interview by the author, 08/07/2022.

[4] Kazuo, KASAMI. (2021): Urban-rural migration during COVID-19, Cabinet Office, 3^rd Roundtable Meeting of Experts on Urban Regeneration,

https://www.chisou.go.jp/tiiki/toshisaisei/yuushikisyakondankai/20210224/index.html

Satoru Yamamoto is researching urban-rural migration in Japan at the Graduate School of Economics at Yamaguchi University. After working in real estate development for approximately 30 years in big cities, he returned to his hometown, Yamaguchi City to join the Graduate School.

by Cornelia Reiher

Two of our field sites are known for porcelain. The porcelain industry in Arita has experienced a steady downward trend since the 1990s. Not only turnover, but also the number of workshops, retail stores and employees has fallen sharply (Arita-cho 2023: 9; Reiher 2010, 2014). Some kilns have closed and are empty or have been demolished. What remains are empty properties and lots of porcelain shards that can be found all over the city: in rivers, next to abandoned ascending kilns (noborigama) or where porcelain factories used to be. But it’s not just shards that are left over; large quantities of unsold products with flaws are also kept in warehouses, which are often on the verge of collapse themselves.

Recently, both locals and newcomers have started to reuse and upcycle porcelain shards and discarded porcelain. For example, a migrant potter who works in a kiln in Arita makes new products from older B-ware that have been stored in the forest for many years and are now cracked. The potter, who is very interested in sustainability, has tracked down these pieces and painted over the cracks with golden lines, in the style of kintsugi. She told me how shocked she was when she found out about the huge amounts of B-ware in the forests, and that she wondered why the kiln she works for was not doing anything with it. She thought it would be better to rediscover what was already there rather than keep making new things, and applied for funding to test and excavate the pieces to see if they were broken. After cleaning and firing 500 pieces, they are now sold as small flower vases. By upcycling porcelain, the potter created a popular new product that is also sold via the furusato nōzei system. This home-town tax payment is a system that allows people to transfer a portion of their residence tax from the municipality where they reside to one or more other municipalities in exchange for gifts like the upcycled flower vase.

But not all the porcelain products stored in Arita’s kilns are cracked or broken. Some kilns have gone bankrupt and unsold porcelain is taking up space. Others want to get rid of the old porcelain in order to reuse their storage space. With so much porcelain sitting around in many kilns, one company came up with the idea of selling old porcelain in a tsume hōdai style. The porcelain is lined up in boxes in an unused part of the kiln and customers fill baskets for 5,000 yen or 10,000 JPY. They can take as much porcelain as they can find and fit into the basket within an hour. This idea became a huge success, bringing a lot of money and attention to the kiln.

This so-called treasure hunt is even listed as a tourist attraction in the Lonely Planet travel guide and attracts Japanese and foreign tourists to the kiln. The kiln now also receives porcelain for the treasure hunt from other kilns that have been closed. When I visited the kiln after the travel ban to Japan was lifted, the place was busy with tourists from China and India. The person in charge also told me that people come very early to make sure there is still good porcelain available. Rummaging through the dusty boxes of porcelain was indeed a lot of fun. But beyond that, it is also a great opportunity to reuse old porcelain that can no longer be sold.

Initiatives such as the two described above are still rare and will not solve all the problems caused by the decline of the ceramics industry in Arita. There are still many unused kilns and unsold porcelain in the city. However, they are the first steps in rethinking the future of a traditional industry from a sustainability perspective, both in terms of environmental issues and the preservation of Arita’s cultural heritage. And they can be an inspiration for further projects, as new ideas are also emerging elsewhere in Arita. Recently, for example, jewelry made from porcelain shards has become very popular and is sold in a store in Arita, at the annual ceramics fair and online. It seems that the kilns in Arita are ready to incorporate sustainability, reuse and upcycling more into their future business strategies.

References:

Arita-chō (2023), Statistical Yearbook 2022, https://www.town.arita.lg.jp/site_files/file/2023/202306//6486cd3bc6adfLD3AXP72.pdf

Reiher, Cornelia (2014), Lokale Identität und ländliche Revitalisierung. Die japanische Keramikstadt Arita und die Grenzen der Globalisierung, Bielefeld: transcript.

Reiher, Cornelia (2010) „Selling tradition in Japanese rural tourism“, Orientwissenschaftliche Hefte 28, pp. 121–151.

by Megha Wadhwa

I was born and raised in New Delhi where I spent the first 24 years of my life. Later, I moved to Japan and stayed there for around 14 years. During my stay in Japan, I lived in Tokyo for most of the time and explored various neighbourhoods. Among these, Edogawa-ku became my familiar territory where I lived for around 10 years. However, my final year in Japan, I lived in Chigasaki, which is in Kanagawa-ken. Chigasaki offered a unique blend of rural and urban Japan which I had not anticipated but came to appreciate. Despite being around one hour train ride from Tokyo, Chigasaki had its own charm and made me feel somewhat detached from the bustling city life while still providing all the amenities one would expect from an urban environment. Before living in Chigasaki, I had never considered living outside of Tokyo. Interestingly, just a few months before my move, Chigasaki was recognized as the fifth ‘perfectly formed smaller city’ in the world by Lonely Planet, earning it the title of a rural refuge.

It was a significant shift for me as Chigasaki was the smallest city I had ever resided in. The timing of my move couldn’t have been more opportune, as shortly thereafter, the COVID-19 pandemic reshaped our lives, confining us to the sanctuary of our homes. While many around me grappled with the challenges of the pandemic, I found solace in my new surroundings, which were just a 20-minute bicycle ride away from a picturesque beach where I had the privilege of witnessing breath-taking sunsets against the backdrop of Mt. Fuji. This didn’t happen every evening, but often enough to appreciate its beauty and tranquillity. At first, I found it frustrating to endure the long train ride to Tokyo, especially during peak hours when the train was crowded. However, I discovered the advantage of using the Tokkaido Line from Chigasaki to Tokyo Station. When I had to travel during peak hours, I purchased a Green Car Ticket for around 6 Euros at the time on top of the regular ticket. This allowed me to reserve a seat with a table and enabled me to work to have a productive journey. Over time, I learned to appreciate my life in Chigasaki despite the long commute.

Apart from the long yet convenient commute and beautiful beach Chigasaki also offers delicious Japanese and international cuisines and most of them are not far from the station. I also discovered some local friendly bars – Bar Mikan being one of my favorites and I spent many weekend evenings during COVID-19 at this bar talking to the owner. On days I didn’t want to drink he’d make me delicious mocktails and we’d spent hours talking about films, Netflix series, COVID-19 restrictions, and politics. It was my experience in Chigasaki that led me to consider living in rural Japan. Despite always wanting to live in urban cities, the warmth I received in my Chigasaki neighbourhood created a desire for living in suburbs. However, life had different plans for me. Instead of moving to the suburbs in Japan, I ended up in a suburb in Germany.

In February 2021, my job brought me to Berlin. While searching online, I found a beautiful place in Berlin-Hermsdorf. At the time, it was the only option available, and I decided to book the place. On Google search, I discovered that the travel time on train from Hermsdorf to my workplace, was about the same as the travel time from Chigasaki to Yotsuya. However, what I didn’t realize during this google search was that the Tokkaido line and S-Bahn are not the same. I ended up traveling around 3 hours (door to door) both ways to work, dreaming of the Green Car and punctual trains almost every day. I stayed in this beautiful suburb area for almost 8 months. I enjoyed waking up to the early morning bird orchestra and breathing fresh air. The trekking spot which was only a few minutes’ walk was amazing, and my landlords were wonderful. Eventually, I found a place in the center of Berlin. My house hunt finally came to an end and so did my desire for rural living. I was a happy city girl yet again.

In 2023, I had an exciting opportunity to go back to Japan for a long visit of about 4.5 months. Once again, life presented me with a chance to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and experience the peace and tranquillity of rural Japan. A dear friend kindly offered me the use of their vacant house in Imaizumidai, Kamakura, which I eagerly accepted. Kamakura, with its lush surroundings and rich history, seemed like a hidden oasis to me. During my stay in Japan, I had only visited Kamakura for one day excursions. Unlike my previous residence in Chigasaki, where the train station was only a ten-minute bicycle ride away, reaching the station from Imaizumidai required a leisurely 25-minute journey, often requiring the use of an electric bicycle to navigate the steep roads. Additionally, the bus service was limited, with only a few buses per hour and would take to Ofuna train station in about 30 minutes. Although there were a few local grocery stores and a Lawson within a twenty-minute steep walk, the selection was limited, and the larger supermarkets were located closer to Ofuna. The neighborhood was friendly and welcoming, with residents who often relied on personal vehicles for their daily errands. In contrast, I found myself dependent on public transportation, navigating the intricate schedules and routes to fulfill my needs. Despite the logistical challenges, my time in Imaizumidai felt like a rejuvenating retreat – a sanctuary where I could immerse myself in writing and reflection. However, the idyllic setting didn’t shield me from trips to Tokyo for work or to Ofuna for grocery shopping – reminders of the interconnectedness of rural and urban life.

During my month-long stay in Kamakura in 2023, I gained profound insights into the nuances of rural living, both its enchanting beauty and the challenges that come with it. Despite exploring 24 prefectures of Japan as a tourist, the idea of residing in those areas had never crossed my mind before. However, my time in Chigasaki altered my perspective significantly. Through my experiences in suburban areas, I realized that life in the countryside happens at a natural pace, in contrast to the hectic rhythm of the cities. The tranquillity and simplicity of rural living offer a respite from the relentless hustle and bustle of city life. While my experiences came with their share of challenges, they also instilled within me a newfound inclination towards rural living. Despite the logistical hurdles, I find myself drawn to the prospect, provided I have access to transportation – a car and an electric bicycle, perhaps – which are essential for navigating the expansive landscapes and fostering a sense of independence. As I navigate life’s uncertainties, I remain open to the possibilities that lie ahead. Yet, at this juncture, my heart leans towards the serene embrace of rural spaces, where time slows down, and the essence of life reveals itself in its purest form.

Dr Megha Wadhwa is a migration researcher and a Japanese and Indian studies scholar. She is currently working in the research project “’Skill’ in the Migration Process of Foreign Workers in Asia” (BMBF) at Freie Universität Berlin. Megha is the author of Indian Migrants in Tokyo: A Study of Socio-Cultural, Religious and Working Worlds (Routledge 2021) and an ethnographic film maker. Her latest documentary is called ‘Finding their Niche’ (2022).