by Ken Victor Leonard Hijino

I now have a house in the countryside in Kyoto. Well, it’s kind of the countryside. The house which we bought earlier this year is only a thirty-minute drive from my university and still in the same ward of Kyoto city. It is a depopulating village of some 2,000 people with one convenience store (being the only store open after five pm) and a merged public elementary/junior high school trying to maintain pupil numbers to remain functioning. There used to be a JA which is now closed and a farmers’ market with a popular early Sunday market which draws crowds. Along with renowned Kyoto vegetables, including purple shiso, the village has famous temples and a nunnery with Heian lore, as well as some imperial family burial mounds.

Our new home is a fifty-year old traditional Japanese-style home with a rock garden. It was built and held by a family whose ancestors were so-called tera-zamurai serving a temple founded in Saicho’s time. The vista from our garden looks down a valley. You see a greenhouse, rice paddies, shiso farms and in the background, in cloudy mornings, black-and-white hills shrouded by mist à la suibokuga.  Behind the house, there is a parking lot attached to a local temple for tourists. And further back, densely packed fir forests line up, which were artificially planted decades ago and left unattended to spew dreaded pollen every spring. We moved to the village from our apartment in the city some five years ago, first renting in another of its eight neighbourhoods. Our family’s urban to semi-rural migration was driven for a desire for more space and the chance for our three children to live closer to nature. We were interested by the possibility of sending our kids to the local public school with less than 100 students from first to ninth grade with smaller class sizes and hopefully less stress. We were also inspired by reading blogs of in-migrants to the village, such as that of the lovely organic vegetable farmer couple with two children who became, by luck, our immediate neighbour. Equally important was the satoyama’s relatively uncluttered vistas. Thanks to strict building restrictions, this area has far fewer of the depressing suburbs and architectural eyesores that blight most of Japan. The village is zoned as both a fuchichiku (protecting the natural and traditional beauty of the landscape) and a shigaika choseikuiku (making it almost impossible to build any new buildings).

I remember a friend who visited us, after walking around the village on a magical spring day, who turned to me and simply said: “Ken, this place is just like Totoro’s world.” Indeed, I realized this from watching Miyazaki Hayao’s anime with my three children who have each demanded to see the movie multiple times. We don’t really know what the father who takes his two daughters to live in the rural idyll thinks of village life. But allow me to share some of my impressions since I moved to the countryside. To start out with, and this may be very much cliché, life in the village seems much more social than city life.  There is so much more interaction, whether you like it or not, with your immediate neighbours, local neighbourhood association, PTA and parents. These of course exist in the city too, but the smaller scale of everything somehow means you get acquainted with many more of these members and interact more frequently with these overlapping groups. Take a short promenade and you are likely to meet one or a few acquaintances. Not a week passes without somebody sharing with you the season’s vegetable or pickles. During weekends, kids from different houses migrate back and forth between family houses in a movable playdate with little coordination from parents. My wife seems to know the name of most of the kids in the elementary school, their parents, and what they do and where they live.

The village also has many traditional events from communal cleaning and weeding, matsuri, obon, etc. which are hard to avoid. I have done my share of going local too: from bruising my shoulders carrying mikoshi (after plied with drink); shuffling the post-harvest, eighth new-moon dance around a bonfire in the shrine grounds; to rolling cut-up daikon pieces like dice to ward off demons (so I was told). All things I would have never dreamed of doing in my previous city life. These are fascinating traditions and community-bonding events.  If you think life in the Japanese countryside is “living the quiet life in serene nature” you will be mistaken. You can choose to have far more solitude and privacy in the city.

It’s not just people, but nature that likes to share space with you. We had a masked palm civet – a kind of ferret – running around in our attic (which a local tried to help catch with a trap using convenience store fried chicken as bait – supposedly the convenience store chicken doesn’t rot as quickly as homemade ones so the trap can be used longer…).  I’ve almost run over a deer. Our dozen or so experimental blueberries and raspberries have been snapped up in their perfect ripeness by the local birds. And of course, the bugs: I don’t want to even recall the too many close encounters with millipedes. From October to March, the house is infiltrated by countless buzzy kamemushi beetles which burp or fart? (excuse me) cilantro-smelling gas when agitated. Five years in the countryside and, yes, I still don’t like bugs.

Another thing about village life is that it seems far less ecological than being in the city, ironically. We burn so much fossil fuel! Shame on us! First is the endless driving. As I heard somewhere, “rurality” can be measured by how many cars each household owns. We only own one, but most families have two or even three vehicles as getting around by bus is impractical.  You need to drive to work, shopping, any lessons for kids, even to take a walk (?!). And here I must confess that since there are no large, well-tended parks in the village, I occasionally drive down to the city to walk in a park to enjoy non-farming, non-fir tree forests, vegetation and lawns. Then there is all that fuel you need to keep from freezing in your under-insulated Japanese house.  A few moments after shutting off our air conditioners and kerosene stoves, temperatures drop, nose tips chill, and breathe turns white in our rented house.  Five years in the countryside and I have not gotten use to the sense of defeat thinking about the wastefulness of standard post-war Japanese housing stock insulation. Hopefully we will insulate our new place more effectively.

But despite the bugs, our shamefully un-eco lifestyle, and maybe some semi-inconveniences like not being able to get back home on public transport after 22:00 or no bars and restaurants open after 17:00 in the village, it is a peaceful place. There is plentiful space, clean air, water (we even have our own well), and quiet. Many of the locals and in-migrants are generous and inspiring people who have great pride and affection for the beauty and traditions of the place. Moving here has also been very, very interesting to think about themes like public support of in-migration, property ownership, and social cleavages in a small community. These topics I will address in the following blogs.

Ken Hijino is Professor at the Graduate School of Law at Kyoto University and specializes in party politics and local democracy. He is currently researching the politics of the periphery, focusing on municipal and prefectural level party organizations and campaigning on issues of urban-rural cleavage, depopulation, economic decline, and inter-regional competition and disparity.

by Cecilia Luzi

During my field research in Buzen and Hasami, I had the opportunity to live in so-called trial houses or otameshi jūtaku. In this blog post, I would like to talk about this form of support offered by local communities for people moving to the countryside and share my experiences of living in two trial houses. Among the many types of support that rural towns offer to potential migrants, trial houses are very interesting. These are usually former vacant properties that have been purchased by the municipality. These houses can be rented at a very reasonable price of 1000 yen per day for the entire house, with a maximum stay of 30 days. They are primarily aimed at people who are considering moving to the countryside and want to explore the area for more than just a day. The application process is straightforward: I simply downloaded a form from the town hall’s website, filled it out with the relevant personal information, and sent the application along with a copy of my passport to a designated email address. I then received a confirmation either by post or email, and on the day the rental started I visited the town hall to pay the full amount for the duration of my stay and collect the keys.

On the day I moved into the trial house in Buzen, an official from the city administration accompanied me to show me around. We were joined by a migrant woman with whom I had been in contact since my arrival and who had lived in the experimental house with her family two years previously. She gave us valuable advice, especially about coping with the cold temperatures in February.  “When we lived here, we only used one room for eating and sleeping for the whole family. That way you can keep all the heat in a smaller room,” she explained to me.  The house was very spacious, much to the delight of my son, who enjoyed the freedom to run and play hide and seek in the huge, empty rooms. The century-old house called Yamauchi No Ie, named after the Yamauchi neighborhood just a 15-minute drive from City Hall, was built in the style of a traditional kominka (Japanese country house), with a ground-level kitchen at the entrance and a raised part of the house. The high ceilings added to its charm, but the lack of insulation was a big challenge. The internet connection in the house was very fast and flawless. However, the futons provided by the municipal office were old and dusty, so I was suggested to rent them somewhere for my stay.

The trial house in Hasami was different. It was built in 1970 and offered a compact but comfortable space, with the exception of the bathroom, which was very old and somewhat difficult to clean. The house is located below a hill, right next to a large public park with cherry trees that were just starting to blossom when I arrived.  Inside, the decor resembled a modern apartment and the rooms were bright and spacious. When I arrived, I was accompanied by two officials from the town hall, who gave me a thorough overview of the house and made sure that everything was in order. As my four-week stay drew to a close, I left the house with a feeling of melancholy. Despite its modest size, I had quickly felt at home in the cozy ambience and would have loved to stay there until the end of my field research in Hasami!

When I first learned about the existence of trial houses in rural communities in Japan, I was really surprised. Having never seen something like it in Europe, I was immediately intrigued. The process of acquiring vacant properties, renovating them and making them available to migrants and travelers struck me as innovative. Trial houses offer individuals, especially families, the opportunity to experience rural life at an affordable price. In both towns, I met migrants who had taken advantage of the trial house service upon arrival and were very happy with the opportunity to live in an inexpensive but cozy space while exploring the area. However, I believe some changes could be made to improve the trial house system which is still relatively unknown. It seemed that only those who were in direct contact with the local government, such as chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai members or urban-rural migrants who applied for relocation support, were aware of this opportunity. Extending the length of stay, increasing the availability of trial houses and advertising their existence more systematically could be of invaluable help to urbanites wishing to familiarize themselves with the countryside and rural lifestyles before deciding to relocate long-term.

by Sarah Clay

Since the beginning of the 21st century, the Japanese government has encouraged rural areas to develop local brands as part of their revitalization strategies. To attract tourists and migrants from urban areas, rural municipalities and their residents receive support to develop products unique to that region. This resulted throughout Japan in an enormous increase in local products over the past two decades [1]. Some famous examples are the melons from Yūbari town, apples from Nagano, and wine from Yamanashi Prefecture. On the Miyako Islands, you can find all kinds of products made with local herbs and plants. Popular, for instance, is the sweet-scented getto tea, purifying noni soap, and Yarabu Oil that is made by the elderly on Ikema-Jima.But even more than local delicacies or beauty products, it is the sea and its unique color known as “Miyako Blue” that attracts Japanese tourists and migrants the most. In this blog post, I introduce two producers who have turned the sea into a commodity and developed a product that offers tourists and others new ways to experience the sea of Miyako.

The first product is not produced in Miyako, but sold in local stores and in the umi no eki of Irabu-jima. 35 Coffee (pronounced: san-go coffee, sango is the Japanese word for coral) is an Okinawan coffee brand that was founded in 2009. The special thing about the coffee is that the beans are slowly roasted at a temperature of around 200 degrees Celsius on coral fossils from the Okinawan Sea. According to the prefecture’s fishing law, it is strictly forbidden to collect corals or coral fossils. That is why 35 Coffee works with a company that has obtained a special license for this purpose. It is also forbidden to export coral from the prefecture, so 35 Coffee can only produce on the islands of Okinawa – which the company uses as a unique selling point. You can buy the coffee via the company’s website, in local stores and in the two 35 Coffee stores on Kokusai Dōri in Naha and in Okinawa World in Nanjo [2].

Besides using corals in the production process, 35 Coffee donates 3.5 percent of its profits to coral restoration projects. Their main partner is Okikai, a construction and real estate company that also specializes in coral transplantation. Coral transplantation has become a popular conservation method in Okinawa in recent years. First, a healthy host coral is taken from the ocean and divided into several pieces. These polyps are kept in a water tank and monitored until they reach a size when they can be planted back into the ocean [3]. Okikai does this in April and October, as the company realized that survival rates are highest during those months. 

Another product that is being sold on the Miyako Islands is the salt of the brand Kanashaya. Kanashaya means “lovable” in the Miyako language. The handmade salt is extracted directly from ocean water gathered at the Yabiji coral reef, a designated natural reserve that is located a little off shore of Ikema-jima. The producer of the salt, Bibi-san, started the Kanashaya project during the COVID-19 pandemic when she was in need of some extra income. The salt can be bought via her online shop and in local shops and restaurants on Miyako. It can be either used for consumption or mixed with water as a body scrub [4]. There are different variants of Kanashaya salt. The water of Yabiji is collected either during full moon or new moon, with the moon standing every month in a different star sign. As such, all the batches have a different energy that interacts with the energy of the user in unique ways. Salt created from water gathered during the new moon contains livelier energy, as the new moon is a phase of new beginnings. Full moon salt, on the other hand, can be used as a closure, to give gratitude to what came on your path, and to leave behind what is not useful anymore. Gathering the water is a spiritual process for Bibi-san, during which she stands directly in contact with the sea deity Kaijin-sama. During the boat ride to the Yabiji reef, Bibi-san prays to Kaijin-sama and sings the ancient Hifumi Norito prayer as a way to honor the gods.

When I visited Miyakojima, I was interested in how locals and migrants use the sea as inspiration to develop local products that together form the Miyako brand. Some products are small-scale, such as Bibi-san’s Kanashaya salt. Others have grown into big businesses, as the example of 35 Coffee shows. Some products take the bright color of the sea as a starting point, others its symbolism of freedom and purification, still others its spiritual energy. By highlighting the different characteristics of the sea, these products become symbols of the different relationships people have with the sea of Miyako and offer valuable insights into the stories surrounding the natural world of the islands.

References

[1] Rausch, Anthony. 2009. “Capitalizing on Creativity in Rural Areas: National and Local Branding in Japan.” Journal of Rural and Community Development, Vol. 4 No. 2, pp. 65–79.

[2] Website 35 Coffee: https://www.35coffee.com/

[3] See for an in-depth analysis of Okinawan coral gardening:  Claus, C. Anne. 2017. “The Social Life of Okinawan Corals.” Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture, Vol. 11 No. 2, pp. 157-174

[4] Website Kanashaya: https://bibirk.stores.jp/ and https://www.instagram.com/kanashaya/

by Cornelia Reiher

“What town has a waterfall behind the train station?” one of my research participants asked me proudly as we began our sightseeing tour of his favorite spots in Taketa in the spring of 2023. The impressive waterfall cascades down a rock face and springs from a source near an old shrine that was once the center of the town. He introduced me to the many streams, springs and hot springs in the area and took me to hidden springs, small ponds and waterfalls that I would never have found without his expertise as a local guide. If you spend a little time in Taketa and talk to locals and urban-rural migrants alike, at some point the topic of water comes up. The good quality of the water was mentioned by almost everyone, and some urban-rural migrants have moved to Taketa because of it. Fetching drinking water from the many springs in the area is an integral part of everyday life for many, and water has also become an important part of Taketa’s marketing strategy.

The motivations for moving to a particular rural location are unique to each urban-rural migrant, but many people I interviewed or who appear in online promotional videos for urban-rural migration cite nature as an important reason for their relocation. They moved to the countryside because they wanted to live closer to nature, raise their children in a safe and healthy environment or grow their own food. Fetching spring water (wakimizu) is mentioned in promotional materials and interviews alike as a feature of an idealized rural lifestyle surrounded by beautiful nature. In Taketa, many of the urban-rural migrants I interviewed told me that they moved here because of the good water quality, among other reasons. One migrant praised the beautiful mountains, rivers, sky and water. Another migrant said: “The water is simply wonderful.” (Interview with a female migrant, 2022). Return migrants emphasized that they returned because the food tastes better due to the good water quality, and migrants with children mentioned that they enjoy swimming in the clean water of the rivers. Some stressed that the hot springs in Taketa are better (in terms of water quality) and cheaper than in Oita-shi.

When I visited Taketa, I always found spring water in my accommodation and in restaurants.  Signs pointed out the name of the spring and the health benefits of drinking this particular spring water. My research participants took me to the numerous springs in the area to replenish their drinking water supplies. When we arrived with a trunk full of empty canisters or pet bottles, we parked next to other cars, often from other prefectures in Kyushu, but sometimes also from Honshu. My research participants proudly pointed out to me that people travel long distances to fetch the delicious spring water from Taketa. We had to queue at some springs to fill up our pet bottles, and some springs were completely deserted. Instead of fetching the water from the stream, the community set up taps to make fetching the spring water easier. While for some urban-rural migrants this practice of fetching water has become a routine that makes them feel closer to nature, for some locals it is an economic necessity and a way to save money on their water bill.

Water has also become an important tourist asset in Taketa. The tourism association has created a map of scenic springs. Local guides take tourists to waterfalls and hot springs and promote Taketa’s waterways. There are folk tales about water, such as the story about a dragon living by a waterfall. The dragon terrorized the area and had to be calmed with the head of a cow. After that, he apparently behaved himself. But water is not only important for people’s daily lives and local identity, maintaining its quality and keeping the waterways clean is also a challenge. When we visited different places in spring 2023, my local tour guide pointed out that there was not enough water in the ponds and streams and expressed his concern about how this would affect trees, wildlife and people.

In addition to these environmental challenges, the maintenance of the city’s water channels is becoming increasingly difficult due to the ageing population and the exodus of young people. Residents usually clean the canals together with their neighborhood association (jichikai). In some neighborhoods, only older people still take part in such activities because their children have moved away. In some cases, urban-rural migrants now help with the neighborhood association’s activities to maintain and clean the waterways. In this way, the circle is complete: the water has attracted people to Taketa and is now being maintained by them.

by Josko Kozic

For me, a PhD student of religious studies studying contemporary practiced Buddhism and sacred cultural heritage, the Tajima region including the town of Yabu in Hyōgo Prefecture is an important place for fieldwork. In addition, it is also my partner’s hometown, so every visit to his family is an opportunity to conduct additional field research and open up new adventures, encounters and perspectives. Today I would like to give you an example of how this charming town is being promoted through the efforts of local and international actors and highlight the important role of a Buddhist temple in creating community and creative exchange in the region.

In August 2023, I was kindly invited to an O-bon dance festival by the head Priest of Yabu’s Buddhist temple Nikkō-in. Priest Morita is a passionate music-lover who frequently invites musicians and orchestras from all over the world to Yabu for public music events. When I met him first in 2021, he kindly introduced me to his temple and an ancient statue of a rather rare and special Buddhist deity known by the name of Uhō bosatsu (“Rain blessing Boddhisatva”). This time, Priest Morita invited the famous singer Kawachiya Kikusuimaru, who sings so-called Kawachi Ondo folk songs, primarily incorporating topics such as street life, the working class, yakuza, rough language and Buraku communities as their main theme. The concert took place inside the outdoor part of Nikko-in temple and was held for several hours, beginning in late afternoon and lasting until early night. It was accompanied by Taiko drum and guitar players and got to its climax when all guests started to do an O-bon dance to the music, relaxing and enjoying themselves in the heat of the summer night, occasionally quenching their thirst with some freshly cut watermelon. The concert allowed the locals to gather and spent some carefree time in the wanton mood of a music concert held in a rather unusual location and also provided the opportunity for some exchange between me and Priest Morita.

But the event was also an opportunity to get to know a new friend I had made just before the concert: Cesar Romero, who works in the Trade and Tourism Department as the International Relations Coordinator for Yabu City. I met Cesar by chance at Yabu City Hall, right next to Yōka City Station (michi no eki), where I went to buy a small doll of the local mascot (yurukyara), called “Yappu”, and to get some fresh Sanshō pepper, which is famous nationwide for its luscious fragrance and can trace its reputation back to the Edo period. Cesar approached me and since then we kept in touch and decided to attend the concert at Nikko-in Temple together. Afterwards, he invited us to a newly opened izakaya in Yabu, which is run by young locals and uses regional ingredients for both traditional and fusion food and drinks. Cesar is of Canadian-Colombian descent but grew up in Japan, where he is now involved in numerous activities in Yabu and beyond. During our first conversation, I was very impressed to hear about his experiences working on projects such as harvesting yuzu and Sanshō pepper or organizing a lavish sake event at Yabu’s Akenobe mine.

Primarily, Cesar’s activities are aimed at making Yabu more open to inbound tourism by producing tourism material in English and advising the city on how to improve signage for international tourists. In addition, one of his tasks is to represent Yabu at international tourism conventions, where he encourages travel agencies from all over the world to promote tourism in Yabu. This also involves highlighting alternatives to mass tourism along the Golden Road and focusing on “slow tourism”. In addition, Cesar approaches local groups or members of the Regional Development Cooperation Corps (chiiki okoshi kyōryokutai) to develop possible activities for tourism. Another of Cesar’s tasks is to promote the internationalization of the city in order to make Yabu more foreigner-friendly and to inform residents about intercultural skills and the importance of multiculturalism. According to Cesar, the Yabu region lacks vitality and curiosity to try new things. He adds that the aging community is inevitably becoming more conservative and as a result, part of the community is seriously considering efforts to attract foreign tourists. Although Yabu has many assets that can be promoted abroad, such as Tajima beef, Yōka pork, Asakura Sanshō pepper and local sake, Cesar criticizes the lack of focus of Yabu’s outdated tourism model, which is heavily dependent on the weather, with winter being the busiest season. With warm winters like in 2023, many businesses would not be able to make a profit.

Reflecting on how much Priest Morita as a local and Cesar as a non-local, each separately or hand in hand, can influence social life and tourism in Yabu and surrounding areas, made me realize how social interaction within and beyond cultural and linguistic boundaries acts as an essential tool for rural revitalization engagement and efforts. Many thanks to Cesar Romero and Priest Morita for giving me such deep insights into a region that I consider my “second home!”

Josko Kozic is a PhD candidate at the Institute for Religious Studies at Heidelberg University and currently a visiting scholar at DIJ Tokyo, Nanzan Institute and Sophia University. His current project focuses on the interconnectedness of religious practices, their socio-economics and their politics in relation to cultural heritage efforts (including UNESCO). He specializes in the study of contemporary Shugendō practice, esoteric Buddhism and the iconography of Hindu-Buddhist heritage sites in South, Central and Southeast Asia.

by Cecilia Luzi

I had the opportunity to observe and compare two different communities and the different patterns of urban-rural migration in the bustling cafes of Hasami and the beautiful landscapes of Buzen. My goal was to learn more about the migrants’ perspective on rural life and to analyze the different factors that play a role in creating a sense of belonging. For many of the people I met, their journey was linked to a sincere desire to learn and adapt, which is crucial in fostering a sense of home in a new environment. Amidst this commitment, migrants bring with them a rich history of familial and individual relationships, personal aspirations and unique skills that infuse the process of building a new home with creativity.

Today, I would like to share with you the story of Rieko, a 43-year-old woman who moved with her two daughters to one of the municipalities in my fieldwork. Her husband commutes to the nearest big city and returns home on weekends. Rieko used to work as a freelance web writer and photographer, but now she works for a company promoting local tourism. She is a content creator, and her job allows her to explore local tales, legends, and myths, which she is passionate about. When I arrived, Rieko became my local guide, and we started a tradition where every two to three weeks, we would go on a ramen-and-jinja day. Rieko would drive me to hidden shrines and share their history with me. Afterwards, we would enjoy delicious ramen at nearby spots. Our last ramen-and-jinja day was on a sunny mid-February day in 2023. We headed to a ramen shop along the road that was mainly frequented by truckers, to enjoy a tonkotsu ramen. “It was the first place I tried when I first came down with my husband to visit the area in view of a future move. It’s the best tonkotsu ramen in all of Kyūshū!” Rieko confided. On that particular day, she led me to visit a shrine hidden under a cliff covered with vegetation, in the middle of rice fields. Rieko was a rich source of information about the place, and she insisted that it’s a shame these areas are not adequately promoted.

We discussed how people perceive these areas: “Not many people live in these areas. Outside of here, it’s difficult to make people understand where these towns are, and people have only a very vague idea of how life is in these areas, and this is true also for migrants or those who would like to come here. Once, talking to someone about my choice, they told me how nice it must be to live in a place in the middle of the mountains (note: the municipality has only a very small portion of mountainous terrain; the rest are hills that descend to the sea).” We laughed and Rieko confessed: “I didn’t really know what to respond.” Rieko has been making an effort to connect with her new home by learning about its history and geography. She uses various online sources and visits the local library to gather information. She has also tried to reach out to local amateur historians for more insights, but unfortunately, they were not very cooperative: “You know, it’s often older retired men, and either they aren’t very friendly, or sometimes conversations can get a bit awkward,” she once shared with me. When I visited her home for the first time, she proudly showed me a couple of old books on local history that she had recently acquired from a small museum a few months earlier. Besides her job, Rieko also has a blog where she shares her knowledge of the region’s rich history and legends, as well as her reviews of restaurants and cafes. Her unique perspective as a young woman from “outside” immersing herself in local history makes Rieko’s view on local geographical and historical landscapes refreshing.

Reiko’s personal journey as an urban-rural migrant is a good example of how people try to connect with their new place of residence through their work, lifestyle and interests. Before moving to the country, she had not expected to develop a passion for history. But this unexpected pursuit also proved beneficial for the local government. Rieko occasionally works with the Green Tourism Office to design new brochures and promotional leaflets. By increasing her commitment to her new life, she also became an asset to her new community.

Rieko’s story shows how a sense of belonging is built through a constant effort from migrants who want to feel at home in their new place of residence. Interestingly, this sense of belonging operates reciprocally: as Rieko attaches herself to the place by delving into its past and present, the place becomes a part of her identity. In return, she becomes an integral part of the local community by actively producing knowledge about it and through collaborating with the local government. Similar to many other urban-rural migrants, Rieko introduces the possibility of new ways of inhabiting this space through her presence, actions and perspectives on rural areas. This broadens the definition of what it means to be a local and creates a change in the way rural spaces are perceived and inhabited.

by Joy Hendry

In 2019, just before Japan closed to outside researchers for what must have seemed a cruelly long time to young scholars waiting to do their planned fieldwork, I was lucky enough to make a nostalgic visit to my own first fieldwork location. Thanks to the support of the Daiwa Anglo-Japanese Foundation, I donated some of the materials I had collected 43 years earlier, having decided they were better off in the village than gathering dust on my bookshelves. Moreover, my son and his partner were able to join me and make a documentary film about the visit, which I was delighted to discover could be enjoyed by many classes being taught remotely, also due to the pandemic.

The older villagers remembered the year I had spent as a doctoral student, for there were few foreigners in rural Japan at the time, and my husband and I were a rare sight. Later I took my children to visit, so the man filming them had also been there as a youngster, and of course, the youth group of that time were now running village affairs. They were incredibly welcoming, as they had always been, and the family who had been next-door neighbours to my husband and I opened their home to us, as they had done on several previous visits over the years. There has been reciprocity, of course, and I have just introduced their great granddaughter to the Hall in Oxford used in films of Hogwarts School of Harry Potter fame.

The village of 54 houses has shrunk slightly over the years, and a few newcomers have settled there, but the majority of residents are long-term, continuing families, though the younger generations have often found themselves homes separate from their elders. This is one of the changes since I first lived there, but there are still multiple generations working together on the growing of tea, first introduced as a pilot scheme a few years before I arrived, and chrysanthemums, which flourish in electrically lit greenhouses to allow them to flower for the New Year. These crops have largely replaced the papermaking which had been practiced in 30 houses in the past.

Other crafts I observed, such as bamboo work and lantern-making, have been replaced by businesses such as the supply of local stoneware, manufacture of vinyl bags, and a care home. One resident has a thriving carpentry business which is not new – he was trained in the community – and he was another visitor to Oxford, where he and his son built my university a small but charming Japanese room. His other son will carry on the trade, and between them these young men have added six children to the local school system, quite an achievement as Japan watches the birthrate plummet. A family which collected honey when I was first there has also grown the business and now exports it far and wide, again with generational continuity.

Another couple still thriving in the village invited all their grandchildren round to meet me on this visit. By chance their wedding had taken place during my first stay and their photograph appeared on the front of the book based on my doctoral research. Some of their relatives appeared on the cover of my second book so they laid both out for a family photograph along with albums of other events which have taken place over the years.

It has been a highlight of all my visits to Japan to return to this community, on one occasion with a BBC crew to make another educational film, always to find out how rural life was changing. Fewer people are to be found walking in the streets of the village – they drive out to their fields and greenhouses in their cars and farm vehicles, and there is no longer a village bath to bring everyone out of an evening. However, a splendid new village hall has been built, and it was used formally to receive the family trees and my diagram of how all the houses in the village were related, so there is clearly enough care and resource to give the community a good meeting place.

This visit was possibly my last, and during the pandemic I wrote a memoir of the experiences I have had there over the years, often wonderful, but sometimes frustrating, sad, and of course lonely. The book is called An Affair with a Village, for an anthropologist is always an outsider, marginal to “real life”. I started the book in 1976 so it was good to get it finished, and I hope it may inspire some of those setting out to start on such a career, even if their arrival was delayed, to build good relations with those who help them in Japan.

Joy Hendry is professor emerita of Oxford Brookes University where she taught the Anthropology of Japan for many years.

by Lynn Ng

“Leave no one behind” is the central theme of the United Nations’ pledge towards sustainable development, and it is also one of the four pillars of Japan’s Digital Garden City Strategy [1] to integrate digital technologies into rural regions. Digital technologies are a double-edged sword: they can connect communities, people and urban and rural areas while excluding others, whether due to infrastructural inequality or social disparities.

In Professor Reiher’s “Digitalization in Japan” course, we discussed the changes in Japan’s technological space and their impact on the country’s gender and labor spheres. Sometimes I feel encouraged when I read about the progress of digitalization strategies, and other times the reading reminds me of the numerous hurdles that hinder Japan’s progress as a technological country that “leaves no one behind.” For example, while in class we discussed the rise of digital platforms that allow women to work from home, we also explored the social structures that make their digital work invisible [2]. Later, we also read about how global digital transformation is gaining academic traction in rural areas and how rural communities can benefit from digitalization [3, 4], only to subsequently discuss the scale and applicability of many rural digitalization projects beyond individual case studies.

But I often remember the vast disparity in digital accessibility between communities I experienced during my fieldwork in Fukushima. In my previous blogpost,I wrote about the strong consumption of new digital technologies across Fukushima prefecture after the triple disaster in 2011. Yet, in that writing, unknowingly, I myself had already “left behind” the communities in the same prefecture where I spent a whole week without a single phone signal in 2022.Ironically, I also wrote a post about that experience for this blog. Thus, despite the central government’s vision to realize a society where “no one is left behind” regardless of geographical limitations, age gender or disability, such is the reality of Japan’s digitalization attempts across its regions: Certain communities in Fukushima prefecture, such as Okuma would be developing zero-carbon technologies and unmanned stores, while a community of a similar size just a little over a 30-minute drive into the mountains would lack basic telecommunications infrastructures.

As I now prepare for my return to the field in February, I am both anxious and excited to visit these places again. But I carry a deep hope that the inequality I experienced in the digitization processes has lessened even a little. And I’m curious to find out if the newly launched Digital Garden Cities strategy has spawned new projects at the local level in Fukushima to tackle the digital divide in Japan’s rural areas.

References:

[1] JapanGOV. (2022). Vision for a Digital Garden City Nation: Achieving Rural-Urban Digital Integration and Transformation. Retrieved online: https://www.japan.go.jp/kizuna/2022/01/vision_for_a_digital_garden_city_nation.html

[2] Lukács, Gabriella (2020). Invisibility by Design: Women and Labor in Japan’s Digital Economy. Durham and London: Duke University Press.

[3] Stein, Veronika, Pentzold, Christian, Peter, Sarah and Sterly, Simone (2022). “Digitalization and Civic Participation in Rural Areas: A Systematic Review of Scientific Journals, 2010-2020”. Raumforschung und Raumordnung 80(3), p. 251–265.

[4] Rutihinda, Cranmer (2020). “The Role of Digital Entrepreneurial Platforms and Bricolage Entrepreneurial Processes in Rural Transformation”. Journal of Emerging Trends in Marketing and Management 1(1), p. 220–230.

by Cornelia Reiher

On a beautiful weekend in the spring of 2023, a friend invited me to a market in the countryside of Oita Prefecture. The market was held on the private property of a couple of urban-rural migrants. Their adult son had moved to the same area with his family a few years ago, and the parents followed him because they wanted to be close to him and their grandchildren. In their idyllic garden, which surrounds their house on a hill overlooking the rice fields, several people had set up stalls. They sold pastries, bread, tea, toys and clothes. To get to the house, we had to climb up the hill under flowering trees. When we arrived, a guitar concert was taking place on an impromptu stage, which, together with the scent of spring flowers and blossoming trees, created a very special atmosphere. Many of the visitors and vendors were urban-rural migrants and most of them had brought their children with them.

Before we were allowed to enter, we were asked to exchange Japanese yen for a local currency (chiiki tsūka) called deera, which inspired the name of the event. Everything offered for sale could only be paid for with deera. The man in charge of the currency exchange turned out to be a member of the grassroots organization Transition Japan and lives in Minami Aso, a town close to Taketa. He handed me a brochure with the slogan “Taisetsu na koto wa, ashimoto ni aru.” (The important things are right here.) He explained that the aim of the Transition Town movement is to create a more sustainable future in order to “pass on a rich and beautiful planet to the next generation.” I had only ever read about alternative currency groups and the Transition Town movement in Japan (Morris-Suzuki 2017) and was delighted to see it in action and speak to one of its members.

Transition Japan supports and promotes the Transition Town movement in Japan. The movement envisions a transformed society that turns away from mass production, mass consumption and mass disposal of material goods and towards a new awareness of “the social benefits and environmental impacts of the things we produce” (Morris-Suzuki 2017: 186).The non-profit organization Transition Japan was founded in June 2008 with the aim of introducing the UK-based Transition Town movement to Japan. In June 2009, Transition Towns were launched in Japan in Fujino, Hayama and Koganei. In July 2010, the number of Transition Towns in Japan reached 15 (Transition Japan 2021). After the 3/11 triple disaster, the movement grew strongly, and by early 2017 there were 46 Transition Towns in Japan, and many existing Transition Towns have launched new renewable energy projects (Morris-Suzuki 2017: 185). In 2020, the network consisted of 60 transition groups (Transition Japan 2021).

As there is a Transition Town group in Minami Aso, it was not surprising to see many people and vendors from Minami Aso at the deera matsuri. On their website, the group introduces themselves as “a transition initiative in Kumamoto, Kyushu, at the foot of Mount Aso. The local community is moving towards a sustainable way of life by helping, taking care of each other and living in harmony with Mother Nature.” (Transition Town Minami Aso 2019). Many of the members are involved in permaculture, such as the young couple from Tokyo who moved to Minami Aso a few years ago and who sold tea made from leaves picked under the full moon at their stall at the deera matsuri. The deera matsuri takes place several times a year and is a place where people interested in sustainability and the environment meet to have fun, but also to support the activities of Transition Japan.

Local alternative currencies and local exchange trading systems have been discussed by some scholars as everyday utopias (Cooper 2016, Morris-Suzuki 2017). Everyday utopias are networks and spaces in which regular everyday life is conducted radically differently from mainstream or hegemonic everyday practices. Their aim is not to change society through campaigns or lobbying, but to create change by experiencing social and political life in new ways. In this way, everyday utopias contribute to transformative politics and change by combining the utopian and the everyday (Cooper 2016). Many urban-rural migrants in Japan see rural areas as spaces from which they can initiate change and realize such everyday utopias. I consider the deera matsuri as one example of an everyday utopia. It is part of our project to observe and analyze the changes that they bring about in and beyond our field sites in Kyūshū.

References:

Cooper, D. (2016), Everyday Utopias. The Conceptual Life of Promising Spaces, Durham and London: Duke University Press.

Morris-Suzuki, T. (2017), “Disaster and Utopia: Looking back at 3/11,” Japanese Studies 37:2, 171-190.

Transition Japan (2021), Dantai nitsuite, https://transitionjapan.net/about-tj/about-transition-japan/

Transition Town Minami Aso (2019), About, http://tt-minamiaso.blogspot.com/

by Teoman Erönü

Porcelain has been one of the most important features of Arita’s local identity since the discovery of porcelain stone in the Izumiyama quarry in 1616. In that year, Korean potter Lee Sampyeon (Ri San Pei in Japanese) found kaolin and porcelain was made in Japan for the first time. After this discovery, craftsmen and artists continued porcelain production over the course of more than 400 years. However, as mentioned in previous articles on this blog, many of the local kilns have had to close as demand for the ‘white gold’ has declined since the 1990s and it has become increasingly difficult to find young people to carry on this legacy. Local festivals such as the Arita Porcelain Fair in spring preserve the town’s traditions and, with over a million visitors a year, are one of the few remaining signs of life of the small town’s once thriving industry.

This fact is palpable in the local community, as several groups and individuals, including the city’s mayor, Matsuo Yoshiaki, and Arita City Hall, are doing their best to revitalize this core industry with PR and advertising campaigns as well as international partnership initiatives such as the Creative Residency Arita project. Another important partnership I would like to introduce is the city’s partnership with the German “porcelain city” of Meissen. Meissen was the first European city where porcelain was produced after Friedrich Böttger’s discoveries in 1710, and has also developed a local identity centered around porcelain production. This led to both cities signing a city partnership agreement on February 9, 1979 and thus becoming twin cities. Since then, the two towns have grown closer and closer and have maintained their shared local identity through reciprocal visits by delegations from the two towns at local celebrations. The local Arita-Meissen Friendship Association also plays an important role in connecting the two cities, as it has been organizing youth exchanges between the two cities since 1994.

A new cooperation is planned for 2024, as an elementary school in Meissen, which has renamed itself “Arita Elementary School Meissen”, has proposed a partnership with Arita Elementary School in Arita. Educating the children about their respective histories and similarities through cultural exchange projects is an attempt to raise awareness of the role of porcelain in the minds of children in both cities. The Japanese children proudly presenting their porcelain to the German children during an online exchange project and talking about the pottery lessons in their school is just one of many expressions of these efforts. 2024 marks the 45th anniversary of signing the twin city agreement between Arita and Meissen, and the partnership between the two schools will be officially sealed during an official visit by the principal of “Arita Elementary School Meissen” to Arita. On this occasion, a revival of the local youth exchange, which had been interrupted due to the Covid pandemic, is also planned.

The efforts of the city of Meissen do not stop here. Together with the “State Porcelain Manufactory”, the “Meissen Porcelain Foundation” and the state-owned company “State Palaces, Castles and Gardens of Saxony”, the city has applied to be included on the UNESCO World Heritage List. However, after this application was rejected at the most recent special meeting of the Ministry of Culture on December 4, 2023, the Mayor of Meissen, Olaf Raschke, announced in an interview that a joint application with the city of Arita is being considered, with the porcelain production of both cities being the focus of the application. A successful bid would not only deepen the connection between the two cities at a local level, but would of course also boost national and international tourism and be an important step towards revitalizing both cities. The talks will take place during the official visit of a delegation from Meissen to Arita in fall 2024 on the occasion of the 45th anniversary of the town twinning.

Teoman Erönü graduated from the BA program in Japanese Studies at Freie Universität Berlin in 2021. He is currently the Coordinator for International Relations (CIR) in Arita as part of the JET program.